December 1, 2017

Because of the cleaning ladies, I drove to Marshall to see Amy in her bar, which I should have done a while ago. Marshall is a quiet, sweet place, determined to be itself, and I can see how one might be content there, granted the several roads leading back into the world.  We chatted, in part about the possibility of doing a little theater there, possibly in her space, which is mostly empty. We reminisced about Ellen and shared our sadness that she turned her back on us. Ate lunch, strolled, bought a book. I’d parked in the bank parking lot and looked around for the bank, which had moved out a while back. The town is essentially a ghost town, which has its charms.

Q has arranged a production of Antigonus with the drama club for next semester. Only his drill-like energy could have made that happen. The Theater Department has erstwhile backed away from me and my work as though we were a spider. I think this will be joyful.

Cantaria– that is to say, a committee of Cantaria-- commissioned a new piece for our twentieth anniversary. They did not choose me for lyricist. I know the work of the man they chose, and the whole enterprise is, now, beyond ludicrous. It’s like Pope Julius, with Michelangelo in his household, roaming the Roman streets looking for someone to do the chapel ceiling. Some of us have assumed ownership of the group for far too long, making decisions that are not ours to make on the basis of expertise or sensitivities we do not have. Now that I think of it, my not being on the commission committee was itself absurd, as, so far as I know, I am the only one there who has ever received and worked through a commission.  What do I do now? Leave? It would save me a solid chunk of time.  Will I be able to perform through the curtain of contempt and violation? Will I care one way or the other in a week? Wait and see about it all.

Dark of the morning. Need only for Starbucks to open to get me to school to start working on the ever deepening stack of papers.