July 30, 2018

A homeless person lay asleep on the edge of the parking lot when I went to the café this morning. He lay flat on his back, head against his guitar, facing into the brightening morning sky. I mentioned him to the barista and she said, “We don’t think that’s our responsibility.” I hadn’t said it was. Made huge progress on Jason.

The guy from Duke Energy came to inspect the electric work. He said he had to turn off the electricity, and for some reason I went into aged curmudgeon mode, inventing all these reasons why he DARE not turn off my electricity. “I’m running an animation program that cannot be stopped and cannot be reset. It will take me four days to do it over.” Anything to torment the poor sincere boy. I don’t know why I did that, except to demonstrate the truth that they should not, just because they are a utility, believe their time to be more valuable than that of their customers. I wonder if he’s telling the story of his rotten day right now.

Weeding and mulching.

July 29, 2018

So, saw Waiting for the Witch done by the Cary Playwrights Forum, and I must say it was by far the least bad of all the local one-act festivals I’ve attended. Often, in fact, quite good. One wonders if it was worth eight hours of driving and $150 for a hotel for the night, plus buying a ticket for which one was, somehow, not comped, but what else would one have been doing? Susan and Jon David attended, graciously, to keep me from going through it alone. Of the ten pieces (10x10) four were actually worth watching, and nowhere was the self-satisfied mediocrity that generally attends upon such things. Cary’s in the middle of the Triangle, and so is perhaps saturated by its culture. Reuben sandwich in a rowdy bar beforehand, ice cream with S & J after. As we ate ice cream on the sidewalk, my cast and director walked by. I introduced myself. What a flood of confession and inquiry! They wanted to know how they had done and if I had liked it. I exaggerated my pleasure, but in fact the actors were amiable and the production not a catastrophe in any way. The crowd laughed. I laughed. It was completely different from all the other pieces that evening, and I understood why the director complained that nobody understood it. “It’s Hansel and Gretel,” I responded disingenuously. My director launched a salvo of apology and explanation that went on so long, getting sharper and more abased, that I thought she might not be quite sane, or exhausted after concentrated effort. It assured them that it was all OK, and that any interpretation joins the Great Stream and enlarges the work. Hansel gave me his phone number. Slept badly at the Holiday Inn. Drove home, lay down in the silken summer light and slept well.

Actually spent my time figuring out why my piece was different from the rest. The general procedure seemed to be: set yourself a problem and then in ten minutes work the problem out: what if a professor is bitten by a student who is a werewolf?; what if you mistakenly think you see James Taylor in a restaurant?; what if you bring possessions of a dead friend to a pawn shop and the pawnshop guy is ALSO a friend of the deceased?  I and one other did not do that, but assumed our plays to be part of an ongoing narrative, with its origin in the past and its end in the future, and only this one passage momentarily visible. I never knew that’s what I was doing until now.

July 28, 2018

Serene morning, except for the towhees, almost silent. A few chores and then I’m off to Cary to see Waiting for the Witch, DeGhelder says the production will be awful. I don’t doubt it, but I remember Cary as a town worth an afternoon in any case. The last time I was there I sat in the public square studying my lines for The Winter’s Tale.

Feeling curiously happy. American Airlines refunded the money for my failed trip. The UNCA library wants my paintings for the faculty show. My happiness is not explained by these things.

Back to work on Jason of the Apes.

July 26, 2018

A day which was the perfection of summer. I had iced coffee at the café, but then decided to give the rest over to weeding. It was probably the day upon which I did the most weeding in my life– though very little looks “done,” since there was so much to do. Got the convolvulus off the trees outside the fence, ripped up acres of russet-headed grass. Thinned the myriads of crabgrass. Went hither and thither uprooting the by now pretty large pokeweeds, so that they wouldn’t mature and reseed. Was aided in this by ground softened by yesterday’s rain. Uncovered rose-of-Sharon, sunflowers, fruit trees, sage that I had planted outside the fence. Someone cuts the tops off the sunflowers outside the fence as they mature. People can be very bold, unless it was very precise bears.  Attacked layers of ivy and honeysuckle just inside the fence, adding to my terrace of blocks. I can tote maybe two blocks a day. Left a volunteer redbud for the future. Found a tiny tiny seedling of the lost great pine, left it for the distant future. Went to the corner of the front garden and ripped out maybe a hundred pounds of vines that had wound themselves up into the hollies. My fanatic writing binge allowed all this to happen. Everything still looks weedy, but with fewer layers. I have to wait for the inspectors tomorrow, so maybe we’ll have another go. Most anxious to observe I’m no more tired than I am on any other day. Do I coddle myself? Can this exhaustion be muscled past, like many another thing? Exultant at my level of not being exhausted.

The waitress at the airport café in Akron had taken her kids out of Ellet because it was, she said, gang-ridden. Times do change. We amused ourselves by talking about our favorite places in Akron-that-was.  We both loved the Diamond Grill.

The apartments ripped out their bamboo, so now my bamboo provides but a thin screen between my windows and theirs.

July 25, 2018

Mother’s birthday. She would have been 94.

July 24, 2018

The flights back were hounded by bad weather–so they said– and after all that, my final flight from Charlotte was cancelled, because a member of the crew had not appeared for work. The man at the desk shrugged and said he was sorry he couldn’t help me, and, no, there was nothing available even the next day. I said “How am I supposed to get home?” He shrugged and mentioned how he, too, had had a very bad day. Not bad enough said my black heart. An old theater friends, Lisa Sarasohn, was waiting for the flight, too. We shared a Lyft from Charlotte Douglas to Asheville. $114 each. Eddie, our driver, came from Queens and kept us awake and our minds off our tribulations by a stream of talk.  He had serviced ATMs in New York. He had been called when his uncle had died in a Las Vegas apartment and not been found for a week. He used to yellow cab in New York, and served the leather clubs in the East Village, where the bears would enter in bottomless chaps and offer him blowjobs in lieu of fares. Crooks would hold knives to his neck. I realized how, without Eddie’s chatter, my rage might have been ungovernable. We arrived home at 1:30 in the morning.

Woke with the electricians at my door. I am now updated as to things electrical. The pond has its own outlet. The workers were very cute. I hope nothing else happens in the near future to scar my lawn.

July 23, 2018

Attended the Hiram Disciples Church, reflecting that its must be the 5th most attended church in my churchy life. It all seemed rather homespun, I having grown used to Episcopal formality. Met with Damaris, who sails along as shed always has.

Spent the afternoon with Denny, he spinning out the long tale of the fall of Hiram, I spinning out the long tale of the fall of UNCA. They have much in common, though Hiram, older and poorer, seems to be more advanced in its decay. It has to do with what Pound would have called True Definition. Education is no longer That Which Is Taught nor That Which Is Learned, but rather That Which is Administered and That Which Is Assessed. We each tried to comfort the other with the notion that this, too, is but one wave coming to an endless shore, that even this darkness will pass.

July 22, 2018

A large group of us toured old Ellet, which has two more years of life before being replaced by a colossal new building looming behind it. It sobered us to think it was built in the year we were born. A building should outlast a single human life.  It was as I remembered it, if a little dingier, the atmosphere a little closer. Most of my classmates were unrecognizable until they told me their names. They claimed that I look the same, though with gray & wrinkles (I added that last part) They seemed to remember me as having forever been on stage or doing something outlandish. I remember one as being a minor commitment, and the other hardly at all.  Frank Barbieiri told an anecdote of having scored high on his SAT exam, but being called to the office to be interrogated about how close he had sat to me. They were apparently used to my leaving everyone in the dust on aptitude tests, and his high score must have meant he cheated off me. I apologized for an unknowing trespass fifty years old. Chuckled about it privately. The reunion dinner itself at a country club in Green was what one hopes such a thing will be. It restored my sense of community going back decades. It restored my sense of belonging. I feel “normalized.” I’m one of the class’s success stories—THE success story if you leave aside children and grandchildren. My success in their eyes—at least as they express it—is greater than it is in my own. Jim W cornered me and told me the gradual and precise story of his failed life from graduation day to the moment we stood beside the buffet line. His getting written confirmation of “brain damage” seemed to be the reason for the story, as if to say of people’s perceptions of him “it wasn’t my fault.” I felt it necessary to listen, as he remembered every detail of my public life in high school. Maybe he was excusing himself to all through me. Frank M and Tom W are still handsome. The men have, by and large, decayed more than the women. Some people claim they don’t remember anything. I remember for them. I talked very little to the people who dwell most on my mind.

July 21, 2018

Yesterday’s sojourn to Akron was bountiful. Took photos of all the homeplaces, spent a chunk of time in Maytree. As I entered Maytree I saw three graceful deer enter with me. Later one played peek-a-boo with one of them, each of us curious, uncertain how or whether to approach. Three human fishermen and a heron peopled the edge of Alder Pond. Because of the men I couldn’t linger so long as I wanted to, doing nothing in particular. The heron would have honored that. Sat at the edge of the Great Green and wrote a little. Downtown to drink coffee on empty Main Street and visit the perky little art museum. I wanted to tell everyone about the way it used to be.

Made sure I knew the way to the country club where the night’s reunions festivities were going to be, but when the time came I was oddly, briefly ill, and didn’t go.

The conviction of the interconnectedness and unity of my life continued and enlarged. Maytree was my first holy place, and as I entered it, it clearly was holy still. Seventy generations of cardinals had waited to chirp at me from the branches. Unity and holiness, yes, but not so much company. Reflected that no one expects me to call and report a safe landing. I don’t even know who that would be. The last time I did such a thing was to call John Cram from the beach at Edisto. He seemed confused. Anyway, one has the life one has. Trying to reason out why may be enlightening, but one does not expect it at this stage to change anything. Will the half palpable spirits crowding the air around me help when I am dying? I must think so. 

Off to Ellet High this morning, to tour it before they tear it down. I have not entered it—I don’t think—for fifty years and a month.

July 19, 2018

Hiram Inn, Hiram. I have a balcony looking out on beautiful black gums and a transported church and a dumpy yellow statue of James Garfield. Arrived after flights without incident at about noon, when Hiram lay pressed under brilliant summer as under some glorious, fragrant body. It was difficult to move in the thick light. I remembered the magic of the place. Red headed birds twittered in leaf cover inches above my head. I moved from place to place, read at book I’d gotten from the college bookstore (which has practically no books), looked at Bonney Castle and others of my old haunts, left the horrible book on a bench. Though in touch with the rich beauty of the place, as I was then, I felt surprisingly little nostalgia. No heart strings were tugged. I looked on the buildings and remembered the wild, violent, usually one-sided love affairs conducted within and around.  But I realized that my contact, my sympathies lay mostly with the land around. My mind was always on the paths of the little wilderness stretching in every direction. I have in some measure never left the valley of Silver Creek. Whatever emotion I got from campus pales beside the memory of this crooked tree or that path disappearing in undergrowth. Nobody appreciated how wild I was then. . . perhaps am now, though most of my tramping must be done in imagination. The Spirits of Place have always been palpable to me. My society has always been imminent but invisible. This gave my life its peculiar flair. I’ve always entered the room just as the one I needed to meet was exiting. He has appeared just as I, in weariness, finally wandered away. But, whatever the company, the setting was right. I have always moved in the forest I could see from my windows as I drove here, the green shelter, the emerald cover. It might have been much, much worse. It might have been much better.

Thwarted in my attempt to go the bar I enjoyed last time I was here. Nothing prospers in this hamlet but the mind.

Bought gin. The kind landlady gave me ice.

July 17, 2018

Our fake president commits treason in front of a microphone while millions watch. It’s one of those memorable days in a person’s life. The Republican Congress has so far not bestirred itself to impeach, which is–besides summary arrest– the only adequate response. Pence must be carried along in the flood. The whole Cabinet too.

Cats rallied later in the day. I was happy. But the end, for Maud anyway, cannot be far off. I say to her, “Tell me when you’re just too tired,” but she eats, she demands that I turn on the faucet, she purrs when I pet her. Circe climbs into bed and bumps desperately against me.

Write. Sleep. How long can it go on?

July 16, 2018

Woke sad. Both my cats seem to be– as I understand these things– dying. They’re in find-a-place-to-hide-and-just-lie-there mode, Circe under the sink, Maud on the washer. Maud comes down to drink out of the faucet, but as far as I can tell, Circe hasn’t moved in 24 hours. It’s odd the grief that attends upon our animals, different from the grief we have for those of our own kind, purer, but also, in my case anyway, inconsolable. Two nights ago Circe slept with me, bumping me hard with her entire body, the way she did. Now she barely moves.

Made it to the Racquet Club and had the first really good work out since January. Some of my strength is back, though knows what is daily fluctuation and what permanent gain. Sat in the hot tub for the sake of my legs, caught myself talking out loud– to God. I suppose it was about my cats Looked for Dr. Brent. He wasn’t there. Watched this Marine-looking guy on the treadmill, envying the vitality which may be gone from my life, and never was very present. I have never not been the last to arrive. Compensation? There is no compensation. We say there is so we can get through a day.

Finished the revision of Night, Sleep.  Maud came down from her perch and Circe out from her, and napped with me, and my spirits are restored at least for this hour.

July 15, 2018

Open the morning with Mozart. Writing. . . writing. . .

July 14, 2018

Bastille Day! Sang at Trinity for Bruce Congden’s funeral. He was apparently watching TV, and responded to the question of where he would like to travel with, “I want to stay right here with you.” A minute later he was dead, in his easy chair in front of the TV. Trinity is a very undistinguished building, almost aggressive in blandness. We sang Mozart’s “Ave Verum Corpus.” The direction was disappointing. A director who can’t direct without hissing “Shhh” at the opening of every measure probably belongs in another business.  Also– try finding the downbeat. . . .

Started a revision of Night, Sleep, which is going, as everything else had gone, like gangbusters.

July 13, 2018

Came to the end of Tub. Wept hard, wept long, by which I knew the end it came to is the end foreseen for it.
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Just so I wouldn’t get complacent, suffered a computer crash that almost destroyed everything. God will not allow repose.

July 12, 2018

Decided to motor to Waynesville or Tryon, but all the western routes were clogged with traffic, so I exited 19/23 and headed for Marshall. The road to Marshall is also blocked by construction, but by that time my jaw was set, and I did, in a great loop,  make it to Marshall, where there is almost literally nothing to do. I was seeking some kind of adventure. . . . One who wishes to see two worlds need only travel from Asheville to Marshall. Had a BLT in the Main Street Café, where the proprietor’s granddaughter moved from table to table taking fanciful orders. I was just too outlandish and she skipped me. Moved on to Mars Hill which, but for the university, is even more boring than Marshall.

A neighbor’s gray cat lounges in my garden at evening, lord of all he surveys. Supper with DJ at Avenue M. People I have hated sat beside us. It vanished, It was swashed away. Upon it came the Refiner's fire. We were white as snow.

July 11, 2018

The hibiscus begin to bloom in their pastel variety.

Sam and I have drinks at Little Jumbo. He needs to hear what I think, which is that the crossroads where he now stands is joyful, in that it is hard to imagine how any road he goes down will go wrong, and if it does, it is but a short trip back to the starting place. Excellent conversation, maybe the most fulfilling we’ve had. He is careful to let me know– what with his travels-- it may be a long time before we can meet again.

After two promises broken by others, Steve the pond guy arrives and mucks out the filter with his hands, and the pond motor is as good as new. I should have seen that coming; the issues that disturb me most are usually nothing at all. He runs a rock shop on Hendersonville Road.

July 9, 2018

The window of the backdoor has a perfect bear nose print about 4 feet off the ground. I suppose he got up on the porch and looked in, pressing his nose against the glass like a kid in a store.

Steve and Justin the electricians came today and completed some work, gave estimates on other work. I asked Justin if he like being an electrician, and he said he did, especially since it gave him the chance to work with his brother-in-law. He met Steve’s sister when she was on a date with somebody else. Both men were the salt of the earth. They looked happy.

The pool motor guy of course did not come. I hate depending on idiots.

Mad weeding and gardening today. I ate a banana and felt 50% stronger than I did yesterday. Was all that potassium deficiency? It is at once too complicated and too simple.

Progress on Tub.

The Orange Outrage announces his pick for the Supreme Court tonight. Cannot even bear to turn the TV on.

July 8, 2018

News from sources at Ellet of the life and death of Samuella Lowe (Leptor), who was one of my friends from high school with whom we had completely lost contact. We were actually quite good friends. Her life was richer than I had feared. She died in 2016 in Kentucky.

July 7, 2018

Sweet Saturday morning rain, one of my favorite things.

Welts across my arms and wrists from where I rolled and moved the big living room carpet. Hope I remember to wear long sleeves the next time. Just moving the carpet (a big one, to be sure) has about ended my physical activity for the morning.

A bear took out DJ’s sheltering fence and damaged the elderberries I planted across the street. My elderberries are still green BBs. This is the same bear who tore out my basement windows, a bold male.

The Falls of the Wyona in the mail to Red Hen. Almost unbelievable progress on Tub. I sit and the images come. The images arrive riding on the words that make them.

July 5, 2018

Called to get the pond motor finally fixed. It keeps blowing the breakers on that side of the house. Called to get new plugs installed around the floor. Funny how empowered and at ease one feels accomplishing a few simple tasks. I sent Wyona to Tom, assuring myself it was finished. No sooner had I done so than I began another revision, at least as radical as the last. Took out 200 + words, found three or four outright mistakes, added a few lines of clarification, took out weak stuff I had somehow treasured. One consideration is that the manuscript won a prize, and the judge read something she liked.  I don’t suppose a revision should travel very far from that. What if she wouldn’t like the revisions? I suppose however many times I go through I’ll find something. The task is just to stop.

July 4, 2018

I believe I’ve finished the editing and revision of Wyona. insofar as It is in my power to do so.  Mostly finding substitutes for the word “was,” and removing coordinating conjunctions.  Also editing out former names of characters. Picnic at J and L’s. Festive. We sit and talk. Sitting and talking has always baffled me a little.

July 3, 2018


Looked up to see an animal shape on my front porch. It was my rabbit, exploring right up against the windows. Late at night I heard the strangest sound, like a musical dog barking, and then a human whistling to it, very clear and beautiful, in the dark beyond the pond. By the time I got up to look, the music was over. I saw one raccoon loping down the driveway toward the street.

July 2, 2018

The great blood-red tree lilies toppled in the storm.

Giving The Falls of the Wyona a final go-over before publication. It really is well-written, if I say so myself.