November 28, 2017

Clear paradisal day. Elizabeth said “It’s like Ireland.” I suppose it is. Drove to Mars Hill to have a look at the Weizenblatt Gallery. The show there now is feeble, not to judge, but to say it calmed anxieties about my own. It is all going to be very casual, and the hundreds I looked to spending on framing might be saved. Was too exhausted to paint afterwards. The least effort exhausts me; I guess it’s anemia, as it always has been, but if it is it means the defect has not, as I expect it should have, healed itself.

Have been thinking about my parents. They may have been good parents in the general sense, but they were not good parents for me. They never stood before me, drawing me forward, but always behind, making me doubt, or allowing no concept at all of, the life of imagination and creativity I would eventually live. I was unknowable to them, and hence, for a long time, maybe even to the present hour, unknowable to myself. It was not their fault.

Have been thinking of the rebellion of women against predation by men. I assume that though perhaps this brutality has not been universal, it has been common, and started at the beginning of the world. If that is the case, the change in the tide now is monumental, overwhelming, on par with the making of democracies and the dismantling of slavery. I am glad to be living in such a time.

November 27, 2017

Maud purrs on the other side of the computer screen. Dragged myself through Monday. Spent Sunday painting with, I think, spectacular success. Big canvases bending to The Vision. Presented Djuna Barnes’ Nightwood to class, all of us having read it for the first time. It baffles me because it does not tell, and does not particularly seek to tell, the truth, presenting the world as though nothing can be made of it except fleeting impression. It is beneficial to me as a writer though, for I tend to forget that SOME of the truth is fleeting impression.

November 25, 2017

A great shape haunted the trees at the edge of my yard. It was a hawk. I got out the binoculars and saw an immature red tailed, its breast still speckled.

White roses lingers. An orange one is in bud.  David claims to have heard a frog jump into my pond.

Trip to Atlanta for Thanksgiving. The clan grows, two of the three nephews adding girlfriends, the niece adding a husband and a baby in her womb. Michael, Bekka’s husband, is a tall unflappable Dane whom everyone (including me) likes instantly.  Made it through the entire day smiling and participating. Though fully socialized, I am somewhat zealous of peace and autonomy– out of habit more than conviction-- and so many individuals at the same time present as a task. A task, however, which is remembered as a blessing. I don’t expect anyone to share my interests, so when asked, “What are you doing these days?” I must come off as a dullard. 

One sleepless night in the Hyatt in Alpharetta–who knows why? The next night I dreamed of making art, great canvases of mostly orange with hot sun-shapes in the midst of them. Friday was annihilated by exhaustion and the drive home, but today I actually did make art, though with very much less orange. Interesting tourists climbed the stair. “Do you dream your paintings?” asked one. Am calmer about my show. I think there will be enough work by then. Found two complete and usable frames in the mess.

November 22, 2017

Strange dreams last night. I was one of a race of beings whose substance seemed to be mostly air or mist. We lived in a great forest and went about touching things, to see how light the touch could be and still be tangible.

I think Maud is ill, but if she were a person I would diagnose the illness as melancholy. She looks like a kitten again, having lost hair (she has so much you only notice that when it bunches n the floor) and weight, but her appetite is good, and she has stopped the vomiting that was her past time for a while. She has started seeking high places, though the patterns of her life have always been fluid and evolving. When she was on the counter last night I looked into her eyes and said to the spirit that has taken cat form, “Little spirit, please do not leave me.” I repeated it so the spirit would have no doubt what I meant. 

November 21, 2017

Nap dream of Galway: in the dream it was a dark medieval city spread over many hills. The hills and the windows were a constellation of lights, and I kept wandering through the streets to revisit my favorite places, none of which exists in daylight. Cantaria had a concert last night for AIDS day that I had put on my calendar for next Monday. Alas. Q keeps critiquing my plays and I keep rewriting them. He likes especially the ones which got no play and which I put on the reserve pile years ago. He is either the luckiest thing or the cruelest thing to happen to me in a long time, depending on what lies further down this road. He is going to try to do Antigonus in the spring for his directing project. My assumption is that the drama faculty will nix the project because it involves me. But, as in all things, lie back and wait.

November 19, 2017

Yesterday was a perfect day. Spent the morning, as I had intended, painting, and discovering that the walls of the gallery are not going to be as bare as I feared. Took a few to the framer, and realized that getting them professionally framed will be ruinous, so I’ll do that myself, as I did in days of yore. Tony mowed and mulched the lawn (this was a surprise; I thought he was done for the season) and showed me how his truck had been wrecked (it looked like it had been attacked by a crocodile) and M borrowed the truck to move firewood, and in the evening it was off to the Magnetic for the final night of Uranium 235. Drove forlorn Q to his call. He is the most fearsomly focused and advanced young man. The theater was full of colleagues and friends, and proved a last triumph topping three weeks of triumph. Though not my best work, this has certainly been the best received of my stage pieces. David and Daniel and their girlfriends came up from Atlanta, arriving at literally the last second before the show began. We drank beers and partied at the house until went off to their hotel. Daniel’s girl had just had a tonsillectomy and was braving it through. Parts of the day I was frantic with the mess and fuss and upheaval, but those moments sink into the general golden haze of at least momentary satisfaction.

Found the latches to close the French doors in the dining room completely. It is possible they have not been closed firmly since I moved in.

November 18, 2017

Yellowish gray in the north, which is what I can see from this window. Last night’s U235 found the Muse off her game, dropping lines right and left, though maybe nobody knew but me. The guy who sat beside me said, “We had a choice between this and Red at 35 Below, but we heard good things about this playwright.” Then he added, “Besides, I wanted to see a play with more than two actors in it.” Let that be a lesson to me.  Ass on the other side never put away his cell phone. I wanted to confront him, but judged that would disturb more people than the phone. People are just fucking ignorant. I did ask him as he exited, “First time out in public?”  He didn’t get it.

Way, way too much selling of Bernstein Christmas throughout the duration of my show. I bet Night Music isn’t mentioned during its run.

Full houses. My nephews come tonight.

Six or seven girls in my Enlightenment to Modern class cheated on their exam by faking trips to the bathroom and checking their phones in the hall for the answers.  Did they not think I’d notice people going to the toilet three times in 75 minutes? They must have been texting the idea to their friends, for you’d hear a gasp of recognition, and another would rise from her seat and need to use the facilities. A student confirmed my suspicion, and heard them in the hall bragging about the escapade. So exhausting, so discouraging. I sent them an email designed to ruin their weekend, and will decide by Monday what to do. As I suspected, the innocent came to my office as fast as possible to talk it out, while the guilty stayed away. There was one exception to this, an advisee who I knew to be one of the offenders. She didn’t exactly claim innocence, but she argued that she had come to a time when she needed recommendations for grad schools, etc, and was there a way to put this behind? Doing just what she did was the way to put it behind. She defended her co-conspirators by saying that they were good students who shouldn’t have to resort to cheating. Though not quite honest, I thought this was brave, and perhaps what I would do in the same situation, tell a nobler lie to redeem a squalid one. I hope they think I’m angrier about this than I really am. But, why, I want to ask, is it always women with the corporate cheating scams?

Day of painting, unless something goes wrong, to prepare for Mars Hill.

November 14, 2017

Conversation with K on the phone provides the shocking news that the show he plans for me at Mars Hill is in January. I had in my mind some vague summery future. Someone has some painting to do.

Got the play version of Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers out of mothballs. It’s good. I had no reason to abandon it, except for that attenuated man at NKU saying, “Of course it’s not publishable. There’s a long way to go before it’s publishable.” Except for John Guare sniffing, “Studios just don’t work that way.” I don’t think any development situation has ever done me good. They make me hide my wounded treasures away without even considering that the criticisms might have been idiotic. I EXPECT them to be good for me, and when they aren’t, it takes me too long to blame the badness of the critique.

November 13, 2017

E-mail from one of J & L’s friends at the play:

We spent an hour last night talking about Truman and the complex, terrible choices of that moment. It was disturbing in the best possible way. I thought the two young characters were a powerful dramatic choice to help us experience the consequences. It was so painful to move from Truman's compassion for the next generation of youth to be conscripted in an awful war and the young girl's yearning for her home that will be incinerated by the bomb. The arguments by the military were also complex. As the ending wove the various stories together and took our breath away with Truman's abrupt signature and all its consequences, I felt a profound grief. Thank you for this work at this time when we again face the possibility of nuclear weapons as a strategic choice. It was difficult to sleep last night with all those images running through our minds. 
Jack and Leland have always described you as a Renaissance man. 
Larry

Taught a few of The Cantos, the first time in my career when I have. It was joyful. At least some of the class sat there with grins on their faces.

Came home and planted what I believe and hope to be the last carton of bulbs and roots. Nine peonies, three allium. In digging I uncovered a beautiful brown snake who apparently crept under my topsoil for a winter sleep. I laid him carefully back, replaced his dirt, gave him an additional blanket of mulch. I don’t think he even woke up.

November 12, 2017

So concentrated on getting through that I may have neglected to observe what a remarkable weekend this has been. Dragged myself to the studio for the November stroll, and had the first surprise when R and his beautiful eyes appeared to keep me company, the second when he brought his rent money, the third when people began buying my paintings, at a rate for which I had no precedent. Five, all in all. Rosemary took the bladder campion on art paper; some woman came in and took the radiant toad (which I will have to repaint, not wanting a toadless wall); a husband and wife from Southern Pines chose three, and may have taken more had I dropped the astonishment and picked up salesmanship. They have the moody moonlit picture of me on the Tubber Road in Ireland; the parula warble on golden paper, and–most astonishingly– the big “Moonlight,” with its mystical animals on an African plain, rhino, giraffes, and, downstage, a black crowned night heron.. I thought that would hang on my own wall forever. It would be interesting to see the rest of their collection. J and L had come up from Atlanta. They suffered the ordeal of Biltmore House at Christmas; then we had some barbecue at Moe’s and it was off to the theater. Our meal included the Platonic Form of yellow squash casserole. Friday the Magnetic was all but filled to the chair; Saturday was absolutely filled, with not a spare chair. The room was full of friends, and the performance went well, and I was very happy. Q’s dad came from Durham (is it?) For the second time, bringing Q’s sister. So, this is to say, trying to put modesty and anxiety aside, it was triumphal, the weekend, and I will try at once not to get used to it and prolong it such as I may. Everyone is asleep downstairs as the north, which is what I can see from the study window, pales.

November 11, 2017

The Fs appeared from Atlanta, and after the show we ate at the pizza place on Depot Street, catching up. I was disenchanted with them after The Birth of Color, so it was good to get back into a place of friendship and conviviality. Much news of people I barely know, which, then, becomes a kind of fiction. I’m beginning to anticipate the quirks of my actors, what mistakes they’re likely to make and how they’re likely to get out of them. J just sits until someone else picks up the scene. M turns the phrase around out loud until she gets it right, like a person in a conversation figuring out exactly what she wants to say. Y just bulls through. The last two are acceptable. Brilliant winter weather.

November 10, 2017

Planted a late-arriving carton of bulbs, mostly outside the fence facing the street, for the edification of passers-by. Got The Eye of Horus to the half-way mark. Big Cantaria rehearsal, with almost everybody there. Too much is happening there. I’ve begun to let information leak out of me like water from an overflowing pail. Was in good voice. Less mucous when I wake. Most of the music tawdry, but I have lost that battle. These little blessings--

November 9, 2017

Supposed to be at a radio station in a few hours to talk about the play. So I have a chunk of morning darkness to work on another play, and on my window list are three plays I’m trying to complete or resurrect simultaneously. One could be done today, one I started ten years ago, maybe, and never thought of the simple thing it needed to bring it out of the fog. Resent the moments taken away from it. I want to finish it and fire it off to Q, who of all the people in the world through these last–what?–twenty years of effort is the only one who really bothered to learn my plays, to be hungry for them, to corner me in my office to talk about them, to think that they amount to what I think they do. I revealed that I had never even tried to publish one. He said, “Look, I’m no expert, but you have 30 plays, and I have seen the quality, and that makes you the outstanding dramatic talent of our time. I think you could publish something.” I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is that my being the great dramatic talent of our time has, so far, been almost completely irrelevant to the progress of my career. I have not submitted anything for publication because, though I am used to rejection in every other area, I don’t think I could endure “No” to one of my plays. One gets used to these things, of course, or one says one does, slinking home to chew one’s heart in the darkness. I’ve never met anyone with exactly Q’s brand of energy. His ambitions seem are conspicuously lower– or other–than his abundant talents. On stage is a different creature from the others, aware, present, inventive long after some of them have gone onto autopilot. His thought is swift and does not always reveal its path from one point to another. He is the liveliest of the six or seven young men who come to my office regularly to open their hearts. Katherine calls them my fan club. I call them blessing.

Jim Cavener writes in the Citizen-Times:

'Uranium 235' recalls Truman and The Bomb at Magnetic
Jim Cavener Published 2:40 a.m. ET Nov. 8, 2017

Asheville Renaissance man David Brendan Hopes has another feather for his highly decorated cap. In addition to being a poet, actor, novelist, humanities and literature professor, musician, gallery owner, Celtic connoisseur and bon vivant, Hopes is an often-published playwright. His newest work has just hit the boards in its premiere production by the Magnetic Theatre, in a production that is director Andrew Gall's first as the company's artistic director.

Hopes has not been known to shy away from controversial themes or touchy issues in past undertakings. Nor with the current "Uranium 235," which is based on one of the most debated events of the past century: Racing against Nazi efforts to utilize atomic energy for destructive purposes during World War II, the Roosevelt administration launched the Manhattan Project — which Vice President Harry Truman was told nothing about. So when he inherited the presidency, he harbored great resentment.

Why was he not told in advance? Should he authorize dropping the bombs on Japan? This is the crux of the story in "Uranium 235." And for a first production, the play raises the right questions. Further work on the script could bring forth a quite rewarding dramatic experience.

A great deal of research went into the story line and the sound and visual cues of the era. A thoughtful dramatic conceit is the introduction of a fictional muse for Truman's reflection on the struggle of whether to use The Bomb. Clio is given by Mary Katherine O'Donnell, dressed in the style of the era and with vocalizing that is spot-on in effect. Her rendition of the 1939 British tune,  "We'll Meet Again," popularized by English songstress Vera Lynn, is one of several nostalgic backgrounds.

Some of the most touching and effective scenes in this drama involve a young Japanese girl, most impressively portrayed by Brevard College senior Lily Bartleson. Her nuanced sanity is a welcome change from all the current and former nationalistic bull-picky. Another pleasant portrayal is that of Dan Clancy as physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, who needs do little more than wear the cocked hat and hold the ever-present cigarette. (Oppenheimer later died of throat cancer.)

The noble but bewildered President Truman is interpreted by Mike Yow. Truman's struggle is touching and authentic. A fairly stiff General Groves is given by Jim Weyhenmeyer, and a bouncy and boyish Jimmy is presented by Kiran Bursenos.

A novel innovation in the presentation is a combination of masked actors and puppeteering to portray a Japanese-American family in an internment camp during that terrible mid-1940s period. The masks are photo reproductions of children of an actual family— sad reminders of a clearly unconstitutional confinement of American citizens, out of irrational fear and blind prejudice.  A disclaimer printed in the program explains the racist and ethnocentric prejudices of the era.

Contact Jim Cavener at jimcavener@aya.yale.edu.

One is terrified of the first review. The terror is gone.

Excellent Review also by Tony Kiss in the Mountain Xpress--and with far fewer errors in fact:

In the powerful premiere of Uranium235, onstage through Saturday, Nov. 18, at The Magnetic Theatre, President Harry S. Truman wrestles with perhaps the most horrific decision of the 20th century — whether or not to drop the atomic bomb on Japan. If the device works, it might bring an immediate end to World War II, saving the lives of ground troops who would otherwise be forced into a bloody land invasion. But the untested bomb would also kill many Japanese civilians and sentence others to radiation poisoning. The bomb might even set the atmosphere ablaze and destroy the world.

Asheville-based playwright David Brendan Hopes, veteran director Andrew Gall and a capable cast handle this intense subject matter with skill, weaving a mix of history, drama, fantasy and even song and dance.

Uranium235 contains certain slang terms for the Japanese and the Germans that are considered offensive today. Those slurs fit the era (1945), but some in the audience may squirm when hearing them. A disclaimer is flashed on screen before the show, but it might have been useful to have this explanation delivered by a speaker before the performance.

Uranium235 mostly takes place in the president’s office. Mike Yow gives a convincing turn as Truman. A compelling Mary Katherine O’Donnell is his mysterious muse Clio, an unconventional character who counsels the president. The play has a surreal feel, largely thanks to O’Donnell’s strong performance. (She also shares her notable singing voice.)

Truman is fresh in office after the death of Franklin D. Roosevelt. He is overwhelmed and angry about only just being informed of the atomic weapon. Adding to his frustration, others have long known of its development.

Jim Weyhenmeyer plays Gen. Groves, who attempts to explain why the new president was not in on the big secret. Dan Clancy delivers as the cocky physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, who helped build the bomb, but admits he doesn’t know if it will work.

A smaller story involves Jimmy (Kiran Bursenos), a young American student, who befriends Kiko (Lily Bartleson) a Japanese girl. Kiko dreams of her ancestral homeland, which is soon to be forever changed.

This heavy material is appropriately lightened by an ensemble of singer-dancers (Bartleson, Bursenos, Bia Holmes, Eugene Jones, Samuel Quinn Morris and Hannah Williams-Beaver), showcasing wartime songs. They sometimes enter from the back of the theater or even come offstage and into the audience.

Authentic-looking dress for all the players adds icing to the cake. A cheer is deserved for costume designer Kayren McKnight.

LATER: Interviewed on Asheville FM this AM. Had a good time. The host--and therefore the interview–was very political. I had a good time, and hope I didn’t come off sounding, to whomever might have been listening, like an idiot.

November 8, 2017

Encouraged S to get together a letter-writing campaign to support A’s re-appointment, which she feels to be in danger because of The Boy’s malignance. He’s like Trump. Everyone hates him, and yet there seems to be no remedy. Liberals think that part of their liberality is protecting those of their own who transgress. I don’t think that. Our tolerance protects his self-protective intolerance. I wonder to what degree that is excusable.

November 7, 2017

Dragged myself off the couch to attend the opening of Chall’s bar. I don’t know what I expected–maybe something more streamlined and modernistic, but it turns out to be exactly right for the building and the neighborhood, a sort of studied pre-WWII parchment-colored caressing ambiance, welcoming and neighborhood-y. Pleased by the big handsome bartender, and by the drink he made me, something citrus-y and Venetian. I always say “you need to get out more.” Sometimes I do.

November 6, 2017

Sunday devoured by church, ending with what I thought must be a fine rendition of the Brahms Requiem by the All Souls choir. What an honor it is to do such repertoire!

November 5, 2017

Odd that yesterday I should feel so physically bad and today relatively good. Was it too much rehearsal? Too little water? Perhaps anxiety over actual opening night. If it was the last, the anxiety was useless, for opening night (aside from Groves’ going up again) was triumphant. Nothing but fireworks. The room was full. The crowd was responsive. The cast was brilliant; friends came from all over the map– Denise and Ted from Nashville, John and wife from Chapel Hill–and everyone said that it was brilliant and I was brilliant and that’s all I ask. It may have been the most pure Opening of my professional life. Slept well, waking with an extra hour, thanks to the return to God’s time.

November 4, 2017

Radiant summer/fall. A blanket of drowsy exhaustion settles on me, so that thought or action of any kind seems far off and irksome. It’s like moving through warm mist, not unpleasant, but perplexing. The medicine I take to reduce the inflammation in my joints adds to it, but it had settled in somewhat before I took the pill. Almost had to leave rehearsal for the Brahms this morning because of side stitches, cramps in my fingers, and a half-dizzy exhaustion that I thought would make me pass out, but in the end didn’t. Part of it is dehydration, something one often does not think to foresee until it is too late.

Bought furniture at Village Antiques, giving the people there cards for Uranium 235, and I’ll be damned if one of them didn’t actually show up last night with his whole family in tow. Thursday night performance left me in limbo. I had no idea whether the audience had enjoyed it, or whether it was any good– observation without judgment, a shoulder-shrugging blank. Last night, though, was triumphant. Dinner with A and S at the Bull and Beggar, then a show that was alive, funny, compelling. I could feel the pleasure of the audience. General Groves went absolutely up at the beginning of his scene and never came back; Truman saved the scene by soldiering forward undismayed, asking and answering as, perhaps, such a man would. All Groves had to do was answer the questions he was being feed, but his panic was so great he couldn’t think of that, or rather answered exactly wrong, as if it were Opposite Night on the Magnetic stage. I doubt anyone noticed but me. The playwright wants to say, “Just get the words right; that’s all that really matters.” It is my experience that such a thing almost never happens. But still– for last night, triumph. Maybe in some ways the purest triumph of my career as a playwright, in that nobody was walking out with gloom on their face.

Pissed because people can’t buy tickets for my show without being offered tickets for the upcoming Christmas feature. The people who produce the Christmas piece are the people who mind the web-page, so protest is probably futile.

A few hours left to beat myself into consciousness before official opening night.

November 3, 2017

Halloween run-through was no worse than it ought to have been, but bad enough that I was glad to use choir rehearsal as an excuse not to watch the next night. Most of the problems were technical, all of which had to do with designers expressing themselves in ways that had, actually, nothing intrinsically to do with the script. One offers a falcon and receives back a peacock. Yet I trust all will be well, and all the additions are probably lovely, if one could see them working.

November 2, 2017

Sitting on my porch barefoot on the 2nd of November with a gin and tonic in my hand.

The Stewartia turns pale orange over night.

One white rose in the back garden, made whiter by a pinkish bud beside it.

November 1, 2017

Watched Tech last night. The problems with the show are pretty much all technical issues, which may be ironed out tonight (when I will not be present) and present perfection at first preview tomorrow night. The one thing that tightened tech will not cure is the sore throat and voicelessness of our lead soprano. May prayer avail. Lead actor fumbles, dependably, one word in each speech. You’d think that you wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t let the fumble cast shade upon the whole passage, but you do. One of my worst theater memories was in Valdez, when the lead actress stumbled over one word in every speech in Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers. After a while, that’s all you heard. I thought the afternoon would never end. May prayer avail.  Endlessly impressed and grateful to see so many people working so hard to realize my vision– though, I hope, it is become their vision as well. M is sublime.

The interview by public radio–the print press release, anyway-- turned out to be something of a disaster, misrepresentation by misquote. I think it better to say nothing.  I missed the broadcast. Maybe that was well.

Dream in which I rented a house to T for a reduced rate, and discovered he had installed an amusement park on the property. When I awoke I was still confused as to whether I had a grievance or not. We can only speak until a woman of a certain kind– very thin and decades too young for him–walks into the café, at which time 100% of his attention rivets–un-apologetically–on her, like a dog’s upon a squirrel. He says, “How can I help it?”  By simply not doing it, I refrain from answering. We haven’t talked more than a minute in months. After a brief, accidental encounter at the High Five, he lunges over to the corner to chew on their unsalable screenplays with Wind. I am too old still to be so perplexed by human conduct.