March 23, 2019

Gesualdo, acquired in Tel Aviv, on the CD player.

Received the final version of The Falls of the Wyona and mailed in my “I approve of cover and text as-is.” Dropping my eyes on any page was exciting, gratifying. I repeat the sensation that it seemed not my work, that I was learning it rather than reviewing it.

Read part of Book I of The Iliad for Sophie’s Homerathon. Very bardic, in the cold with a cutting wind blowing under a fierce bright sun.

Bestirred myself and went to the theater last night. Excellent cider now in their cooler. Left at intermission. Much actorly energy and directorial ingenuity in the service of nothing. The script never surpassed–and seldom rose to the level of–camp skit night.  Was it funny? Sort of, but the funny of a guy in a clown costume screaming “wacka wacka” and squirting water out of his lapel, so you feel a cad if you don’t laugh from time to time. The cutest actor is going to be in my play later on, so that was a comfort.

How can one institution approve both last night’s fare and what I do? Aiming for breadth? Include all possible audiences? Or does my work and this have something in common that I don’t perceive?

Day of supreme  writing in the morning and excellent gardening in the afternoon. Put in quince, rhubarb, a couple of exotic conifers I saw at Reems Creek.