February 18, 2018

Sam and I dined at Vivian’s last night–pheasant–and then we went (I with sore trepidation) to closing night of Night Music. The room was full of people I know. The performance was actually quite good, up to B+, I think, and I was glad to see it off on the high note. It is a good play, and something was wrong in the universe that it should be torn to such rags by circumstance. Q still thinks he did me a favor by saving the show from its original conception. Didn’t bother to respond. But, Lord, for a little while, save me from the subterranean and furtive.

Too much time watching the Olympics.

What gets me in the most trouble? Telling the truth. It always surprises me that people don’t want to hear the truth, even when they acknowledge it IS the truth. I’m not even saying this is wrong; I’m saying I get into trouble, perpetually, for not anticipating it.

February 17, 2018

Night Music continues to get good reviews online and in Facebook. This relaxes me a little. Ben saw it last night and loved it, though he said the acting “didn’t do your beautiful words justice.” I thought that was sort of the point.

Tarzan the Tree Man told me what I feared: my great tree is rotten at the base. Dreamed last night of finding the right tree to put into its place when it is gone. The dream insisted on hickory for some reason. 
 

February 16, 2018

Spring-like temperature, spring-like chiaroscuro of cloud and shadow. Golden crocus join the purple in the lawn. Spears of daffodil leaf. Cleaned up the grounds yesterday, where someone had thrown a bewildering collection of shot bottles of booze.

Drove to the new Flood Gallery out on 70, to see where Carlos wants me to have my show. It’s squalid, but I wonder if I should mind. Maybe squalor is meant to be my metier.

The hemoglobin seems slowly to be righting itself. Or, I seem to be righting it by the incessant gobbling of iron.

Took a king cake to my Irish Renaissance class for Mardi Gras. We sat and talked about Ireland with Mardi Gras beads around our necks.

Crept to the Magnetic to see the new iteration of Night Music. Q’s insistence that it was “better” than before had raised my hopes that it might, at least, be sufferable. Even that modest hope was destined to be dashed. It was awful. It was worse than I expected, and my expectations were low. The new actor was exactly wrong–he would never have been cast in an open audition-- and read imperfectly from the script, with great passages flubbed or paraphrased.  It had gone from an A to a C, with all the magic drained away. What could Q have meant by saying it was “better”? That he and S had finally gotten their way in all matters? It was, to me, an act of vandalism, unnecessary and therefore unforgivable. I promised to attend Saturday, but I don’t know if I will be able. Back into sadness mode. Back to the desert of consolation.

Waiting for Tarzan the Tree Man to look at my pine and see what can be done to keep it from demolishing things.

Weeping at every mention of Parkland, Florida. The next people who need to be shot are those who say, “it is not yet time to speak of gun control.”
 

February 12, 2018

The Spirit of Trump pervades all things.

I am striking out every time at bat.

Lucia tries to comfort me about Night Music by observing that the new actor didn’t have to look at his script very often at all.

Bird feeders and a go-pro (I think it is) and a goblet and a rifle to shoot bugs from the family for Christmas.

Finally talked with Q. He is oblivious to the severity of his actions. Or, to put it another way, the way one judges the event depends on if one believes S was in actual danger or was being selfish and hysterical. He believes the first. I know the second to be true, but cannot fault his impulse to protect those he cares about. Just wish, one time, with someone, I might be the one cared about. Being right never, ever wins the day. It has taken me a long time to learn this.

Good playwriting class. We left the room smelling of tangerines.

February 11, 2018

Church (where I was in good voice) then lunch with Linda & Jim and DJ. They brought a whopping stack of presents I hadn’t gotten at Christmas, so when I go downstairs I can do some unwrapping. Looking oddly forward.

February 10, 2018

The movie Casanova played on TV, and I was nostalgic for Venice.

Missed the Cantaria gala, I said because I was sick, but I think because I was sad. I felt myself on the verge of being inconsolable. “Stop there!” I said, and came, or at least am coming, out of it. 

February 9, 2018

Songs of Alfonso El Sabio on Spotify

Excellent work in class yesterday. One young woman hates men and man-things with a hatred incandescent and, currently, productive of striking poetry. Hate, though, as inspiration is both narrow and short-lived. I hope she blazes into something else before the fire goes out.
 
Jim Cavener’s review of Night Music appeared after the production was blown to pieces:

Theater review: 'Night Music' a local premiere at Magnetic Theatre
Jim Cavener Published 9:47 a.m. ET Feb. 8, 2018
Magnetic-Theatre-Logo.jpg
(Photo: Courtesy photo)

Prolific writer, literature professor, musician, gallery owner and Renaissance man David Brendan Hopes is back onstage again in his hometown at The Magnetic Theatre in the River Arts District, where his "Uranium 235" recently saw its world premiere.

This time around it's another local premiere of a script titled "Night Music," though it is not a musical and bears little resemblance to Andrew Lloyd Webber's memorable tune "The Music of the Night" from "Phantom of the Opera."

It might cheapen the enterprise to describe "Night Music" with the cliche of a coming-of-age story, though it is surely partly that. But a "growing-up odyssey" feels a better moniker. 

And an odyssey it is, maybe even an "odd-yssey,"  with a series of vignettes featuring three young persons in maybe nine contrasting scenes or episodes. Not for a moment could Hopes be accused of the annoying habit of some playwrights of creating choppy, episodic TV-style "sitcom" scenes. He's much too fine a writer to stoop to that gimmick.

The show opens with two young lads camping out in an Appalachian forest at summer camp. The dialogue is intriguing, with adolescent (or boyhood) philosophical insights — crickets and owls and stars, oh my! They fantasize on the sounds the stars are making; they reflect on eternal verities with charming abandon. Thoughts on universality make their "heads feel funny." Life gets a bit more complex by the introduction of a young woman into the mix.

The three young-'uns grow into college students, the hormones race a bit more and relationship dynamics get confusing. The author has proposed a sort of subtitle for the show, in the question: "How would you be different if your first love had been someone else?" A question worth pondering in the lives of each of the audience, but surely in terms of how young Philomela, Cleve and Jesse grow through the various chapters (for want of a better word) in their young lives. Hopes' imagination is its usual unusual and, not surprisingly, quite fertile.

And about this cast of 20-somethings — okay one is only 19 — playing their own ages and that of the previous decades: two are current students of Hopes' at UNC Asheville; the third is post-college but blends with the others quite convincingly. The sole female in the cast is created by Serena Dotson-Smith, one of the UNCA students who does directing and technical theater at Theatre UNCA. She's convincing at each of the various stages of the drama, first through her "spaniel ears" hairdo of childhood, then into more mature coiffs.

The other current UNCA student, Samuel Quinn Morris, gives us Cleve, a somewhat nerdy, dweeb-like young man. In real life Morris has appeared in "Uranium 235" and will direct another Hopes' script on campus later this year. His innocent and vulnerable Cleve is very effective and touching.

The role of Jesse, given by Nick Biggs, is quickly growing from a child to man, each with convincing delivery. Nick is also a visual artist, a musician and does comedy. He is new to our stages but has a promising future here if he sticks around.

The set design merits special note. There are two large screens that are moved about a bit, usually symmetrically balanced on each side of the stage. They are backlit but not rear projections. Various cutout panels are placed on the screens, creating a silhouette that suggests the locale. Clever concept and quite nicely executed by Julia Cunningham, whose goal was to "create a dream-scape that is reminiscent of the ephemeral and elusive nature of memories." She succeeds.

Director Christine Eide has worked with Asheville Lyric Opera and Opera Carolina, so it is appropriate that she should take on a project called "Night Music," although there is no music involved save for transitional scene sounds. But the show's title is somewhat explained in the context of the story and script episode. It's a pleasant romp for a first-time production. Additional mountings could strengthen the message and the delivery.

Jim Cavener can be reached by email at jimcavener@aya.yale.edu.

IF YOU GO
What: "Night Music" by David Brendan Hopes.

Where: The Magnetic Theatre, 375 Depot St., Asheville.

When: 7:30 Thursday-Saturday through Feb. 17.

Tickets: $16 via themagnetictheatre.org or 828-239-9250.

*

On that front, I get updates on how the blocking and staging are being changed, and how last night, anyway, tickets included drink vouchers because one of the actors was doing it book-in-hand. Ruinous, ruinous. I can’t seem to get over it. Eyes welling in the car. I drove to Eden’s and bought flower seed for the spring. That helped. I stopped at the Arboretum and hiked in the clear agate light, beside the healing waters of Bent Creek. Chainsaws were going in the near distance, so it wasn’t as peaceful as it might have been, but it was what I needed. Walked some in the formal gardens, made more formal yet by the austerity of winter. The fact that I never had to lean against a tree to catch my breath indicates that the incessant gobbling of iron pills may be having some effect. Came home and slept four hours. Now the bloodstone light dims in my narrow study window.

February 8, 2018

The dreams I remember from last night involved rehearsing replacements for the play. I am depressed and disheartened, which I think looks to the world like exhaustion. Two kids I loved and fostered have destroyed the work of my heart. I suppose there will be an explanation why this is not as wanton and ruinous as it appears.  I suppose it will turn out to have been my fault in some way presently unfathomable. So far for the year I have two books which are promises and not yet real, and an art show and a production which have been really and materially destroyed. Don’t even know how to average that out. I sometimes torment myself thinking back–it’s surprisingly easy, you just lift the gates and they all flood in– on all my bad moves, all my thoughtless cruelties, all my blunders, public and private, and I find nothing as egregious, as wanton and pointless and ungrateful and ruinous as this. Karma cannot be blamed, unless possibly it is not MY karma that is at question. If a pair look back on this as a black deed of arrogance and selfishness forever after warned against, I might find some comfort.

Was in good voice for rehearsal last night.

February 7, 2018

Was heading out to High Five café when I decided to check my email. There I discovered that C and N had been fired-- for sexual harassment, if I follow– without being given a chance to defend themselves in any way. Or, that’s what I gather. That this is not the death of the production is almost impossible to conceive. I’m told that nobody will notice a new actor standing there with a book in his hand. C was incompetent, but her actions in other ways were severely–perhaps intentionally –misinterpreted. I loved N, and since he wasn’t molesting me, and I never saw him molesting anybody else, I have nothing to express but regret. If he was inappropriate, that must stop. But is being cast into the outer darkness really equivalent to correction? I have the recent time-wasting slander of my former students to make me doubtful of the process, so much of which, too much of which, must be taken on faith, and though often the accuser is true, sometimes she is faithless and vengeful. How to know when? Whom to have faith in? If only I were Solomon.  Wherever truth and guilt lie, I am saddened and defeated. In 50 years of participating in theatrical and musical events, I have never encountered a pass such as this. In 50 years of participating in theatrical and musical events, I have never once threatened to quit because of not getting my way. My two student actors have done so twice during a single production. I really don’t know how to fill the hours. It is too awful. Will take to bed, which is my refuge.

I think of how perfect Saturday night was– to me, holy theater, everything meshing, everything above where it had ever been before. Of course, that couldn’t be left alone.

February 6, 2018

Tony Kiss’ review of Night Music from MountainXpress:

The Magnetic Theatre has opened its 2018 season with Night Music, a powerful new work from local playwright David Brendan Hopes. But despite the title, there’s no real music here beyond a sort-of performance of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

Instead, Hopes and director Christine Eide have painted a touching coming-of-age relationship drama about the triangle involving three young people somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina or Virginia — but it could take place anywhere.

The show serves as somewhat of a mirror for the audience, many of whom may recognize themselves at one point or another in their past or current lives. While the characters are young, Night Music is filled with adult emotions of friendship, love, betrayal, anger, hurt and loss.

The material requires serious acting, and Eide gets strong performances from the trio of Nick Biggs, Samuel Quinn Morris and Serena Dotson-Smith. The characters age from their early teens to young adulthood while grappling with issues many people will face.


Night Music opens with a mountain camping trip by Cleve (Morris) and athletic Jesse (Biggs), and while the two boys have little in common, they form a bond that becomes a strong friendship. Meanwhile, miles away, Philomela — or Phil, as she calls herself — notices the lights on the mountain and longs to know what’s going on there.

Eventually, the three meet. Phil and Cleve attend the same school for gifted students and become a couple, while Jesse is in public school and joins Little League. Over time, they all come together, and it becomes obvious that in this threesome, one will be left out.

But who winds up with whom? That uncertainty powers Night Music through its second act, as emotions bounce back and forth. There are several surprise twists before it’s all done.

As Cleve, Morris gives a strong turn as the smart one in this bunch, wrestling with insecurity in his relationship with Phil. It’s pretty obvious just how much he needs her or someone in his life.

Biggs comes through as the emotionally stronger Jesse, trying to figure out his feelings for Phil, but it’s uncertain how much he actually cares or if he does at all. Is it just hormones that are working, or is there any heart in there?

In between, Dotson-Smith really shines as Phil, who seems equally attracted to both boys. It’s a great bit of acting that really carries Night Music along.

As the show ends, the three characters are in their late teens and still together, their odd dynamic continuing to play out but with less emotional turmoil. There’s some adult subject matter here in the final scene, so keep that in mind if that bothers you, but it all rings very true.

WHAT: Night Music
WHERE: The Magnetic Theatre, 375 Depot St., themagnetictheatre.org

February 5, 2018

From Voices de la Luna:

Thank you for submitting your poetry to Voices de la Luna. We are pleased to inform you that your poem, “A Vision of My Father in Gatwick Airport,” has been accepted and will be published in the [February 2018] issue.

As a gift, you will be receiving a complimentary contributor's copy. We thank you for your submission, and we encourage you to submit other pieces to Voices de la Luna in the future.


Still fierce cold. One bends like a centenarian just to get to the mailbox and back.

Dream that Kyle had an afternoon rehearsal at which he fired all the altos. For some reason this was the signal that I should go looking to buy a plant nursery, which I was doing before I woke.

February 4, 2018

Lunch with DJ after church. We shared our apprehension that Cantaria wants to become a show choir. Our asset has always been our surprising tone, and this is the best way to negate that.

February 3, 2018

Official:

Dear D:

Thank you for sending us "The Falls of the Wyona". We love it and look forward to publishing it! 

Will be in touch! 

Thanks again. 

Sincerely, 
Tobi Harper 


You can go here to view the submission:
https://redhenpress.submittable.com/user/submissions/8433265

In other matters, opening night of Night Music was flawless, the actors at the top of their game, even my agonized ear satisfied by every reading. Nor was there more than one resounding crash while moving the set. Nothing but fireworks. It was– I think I can say this without abashment–profound. I did consider that I am the only playwright who goes to his own opening alone, but I am so accustomed to that I barely noticed.

February 2, 2018

Good work from my senior writers. Any movement away from “white” writing is met with applause–even the use of quotation marks, which is somehow patriarchal. But still–. Played them In Hohe Rache so they would know with what intensity they must write.

Came home to one of the most amazing phone calls ever. It was the editor of Red Hen Press, and The Falls of the Wyona has won the Quill Prize and will be published this year. My second novel. I never imagined I would use those words. I had to ask him to repeat. He wants me to speak on a panel at AWP, so in an hour my plans for Spring Break were made– I will be in Tampa, a place that was not on my list an hour before. If only AWP were in Florence, all would be divine. I floated out of my house to the Magnetic, where Night Music had its first preview. Both local reviewers were there, but both are old friends, so I anticipate the best. The actors were perfection. The superfluous set had to be dragged about, so the scene changes were laborious, but that it the worst I can say.  J was there, requiring me to remember our brief affair, which he had the courtesy to remember as well. I caught myself thinking “he’s looking old.” Dear Jesus, what about me? So, in three months, Penial, an art show (however aborted) Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers, and The Falls of the Wyona. I am, for this time, treading air. I had a similar time in 1980 in Syracuse, but hardly since.

Droves of robins at my pond, tanking up for the next leg of their northwards journey.

February 1, 2018

Blessed Saint Brigid, light at the turning point of winter. . . .

January 31, 2018

Watched the giant blue butter moon rise above Avenue M, follow me through Biltmore and so to bed.

Had coffee at High Five, where a former Humanities student sat with me and talked over some of the insights of the course that were still unsettled in his brain. Sweet and gratifying. We talked of the meaning and application of myth. He was in the class that performed Medea. I gave him a postcard for Night Music and he said that now that he was unemployed he would have plenty of free time to attend. Hope to see him again. He aims for graduate school in some kind of special anthropology. I hope the wasteful and ignorant Boy that deprived future students of that opportunity fails in every conceivable way. I suppose he has and is, if gossip can be believed.  It is never blatant and visible enough entirely to suit.

Made it through choir without looking “ashen,” as Jack said I did after Cantaria rehearsal.

January 30, 2018

I watch Maud creeping about, restored to full health, and I give thanks for one looming terror averted.

Jon David wants to set “At the Creche,” an odd little poem of mine. We’re going to see if we can get a local commission, maybe All Souls-- maybe Cantaria, to put the commission debacle behind us, working in the open, if the time ever comes.

The day can’t decide between snow and sunshine.