May 30, 2019

Excellent day at the studio. My neighbor puts in a rare appearance. I note the difference between painting (which he does not do) and making a painting (which he does.).

Our Hearst drops out of the play for health reasons. Frantic search. I offer myself, though it would mean dropping out of the AGMC concert. Tired of the effort that goes into memorizing mediocre music. Happy actually standing there singing it.

May 29, 2019

Much writing, much submission. A little success makes these things more urgent, rather than less.

The picture is me at the edge of darkness, hauling water in a great can to the new chaste tree which I planted out of range of the hose.

The picture is me waiting for the catbird to fly before I can go outside. The frog
leaps from me, hits lily pads three times before he makes it to the water.

Early to rehearsal at All Souls, I sit on Becky’s bench in the garth. The campus overflows with the perfume of basswood.

May 28, 2019

Blazing summer continues. If I can keep on top of watering all will be well.

Had an appointment with the Solar Power guy for 9 this AM and he flat out did not appear. Unless he was killed on the road between here and there, I can’t understand that way of doing business.

May 27, 2019

Last year I hosted a Memorial Day picnic at some expense. I thought there might be a vague chance of being invited to one this year, but no. It’s all right: I had the most productive day. Made the adaptation of the first scenes of Edward the King that Pavel wanted, as well as preparing two other brief plays form him to look at. Revised all of the existing Sam-sam, ready to head into parts unknown. Planted a fat Julia Child rose, a second chaste tree, and a blazing star, which was the featured item at Reems Creek. Watered, weeded, studied my music, drank innumerable iced teas in the back garden.

May 26, 2019

Some gardening before church. Amazing blaze of heat for the end of spring. I keep watering and my baby plants keep growing.

Realized that AW may be assigned to do a review of AG. There goes the labor of many, sacrificed to ancient grudge.

Sat in my garden in gathering darkness, watched the catbirds finding a place to rest for the night, calling one to another one last time.

May 25, 2019

Woke in agitation which has been slowly diminishing through the morning.

Juan mowed yesterday, and the garden is perfect. It reminds me of the gardens at Lucy Cavendish, which is, at the back of my mind, surely one of my paradigms.

Work on Sam-sam

May 24, 2019

An email reminds me that yesterday was official publication date for The Falls of the Wyona. 

First run-through of AG. Very encouraging– and fun. Andrew hit the main criticism on the head first thing he said– slow down. I missed half the lines, and I had written them.  Most playwrights sit in the house thinking “I can’t hear the words!”

Return to the studio. Uninspired.

May 23, 2019

Dream this morning on a theme of the movie Alien. I was in a lively bar, when I noticed signs of Alien presence, slime, egg casings, etc. I realized I was not actually part of the scene in the bar, but was a dreamer, a witness, so I watched things unfold. A deep tunnel was found under the TV. People at a local swimming pool were attacked by something. Patrons of the bar got sick in odds way that only I recognized, but I kept silent, watching it take its course. I kept trying to guess the next incident, but the script never went the way I thought it would.

Finished my Olympian labor against the vines. Planted sunflowers, though in the fullness of time I want something else to be there.

True to his word Amos Lassen writes an online review:

Hopes, David Brendan. “The Falls of the Wyona”, Red Hen Press, 2019.

Growing Up in Appalachia

Amos Lassen

Friends growing up in Appalachia right after WWII face their growing maturity in David Brendan Hopes’ “The Falls of Wyona.” We meet friends growing up on the banks of a wild Appalachian river just after WWII who discover, almost at the same time, the dangerous yet alluring Falls along with their own maturing hearts. The story comes to us from Arden, childhood friend of Vince, a football hero who falls in love with Glen, the new kid. However, they do not have the ability to understand feelings and they are facing high school after a great war in a world that has been forever changed. It was a time when friendship was just that with no sexual connotations in beautiful Appalachia where peaceful living seemed to be the rule.

Yet we get a sense that something is not quite right and something that should not happen there does. I have had my own adventures in locales like Appalachia and I know that disturbing the status quo is difficult and when it happens, changes abound. Link that to adolescence and the fears and the pleasures that come with it and we have a story. I understand that this is the first of three novels set in Appalachia.

There is a tense feeling beneath the beautiful prose and it is as if we don’t really know what we think we know. This could be because the story of Vince and Glen is told by a third character, Arden who sees from the nostalgic perspective of  looking back on his youth with fond nostalgia, forgetting the racism, homophobia and sexism of the time. It is important to realize this because of what happens in the story but if I share that here there would be no point in reading the novel. We are surely all aware that nostalgia certainly colors the ways we see things in retrospect. On the other hand it is important to remember things as they were to better understand the way they are. To be able to do so while reading a novel that is beautifully written like “The Falls of Wyona” is a special treat.

The review alerts me to the probability that readers will notice more than I anticipated the relative insensitivity of my characters to the social issues which open as daily wounds in our sides. They will have to excuse my people of being homophobic and living in an almost all-white town, etc, before they can permit a look at the story. Well, what is, is. 

May 22, 2019

Heroic gardening. The half acre of tangled vine is within a day of being cleared. My rabbit breakfasts on the dewy lawn. Against expectation, the pond guy actually replaced my motor, and that actually was the problem. Catbirds drank from the fountain almost instantly.

May 21, 2019

Heroic gardening. Almost all the seeds I got from Eden Bros are planted. Finished before 10 AM, which was well, for all was done in the morning cool. Andrew suggested more scenes between Edith and Barbara in IAG, and so this afternoon I provided them. Nothing I like better than a commission or a (correct) suggestion for revision. Commission from Pavel to shorten the first three scenes of Edward the King to ten minutes for a showcase. Haven’t done it, but certain that I can. My white roses miraculous in beauty.

May 20, 2019

Most beautiful vernal moon. Much can happen between now and harvest, but now the peaches and the nectarine are laden with fruit. Attended a rehearsal of IAG and it’s miles further along than I expected. Relief.  Trains under the moon–oddly lyrical.

May 19, 2019

Bach Lute music, the fan a strange futuristic obbligato. I think I finished Diving into the Moon for well and all. I feel better about it than I did The Falls of the Wyona when it sat cooling on the computer. The day is trying to rain.

May 18, 2019

Heroic gardening. German lute music. Irish sun-poisoning rekindled on my scalp. Started the day at High 5, thinking I might want to write a play about the recent Title IX circus. Discovered that I would have to understate the asininity of the issue to make the thing plausible at all. To quote their real precepts and report their real procedures sounds like oafish parody. It is a sad tale when you have to clean up your enemies’ reasoning and dull the edge of their tyranny merely to present the issue to the public. People simply do no believe you when you say, “And THEN she said this.” But she did. Back on 9/11 somebody said, “Nobody would buy it if you put, one year ago, the exact events of this day into a book.” You say that the Biddyocracy cannot endure, You say that Trump cannot be elected. It is a world of wonders.

May 17, 2019

Corelli on You Tube, interrupted by the most inharmonious commercials.

Back to the Racquet Club before dawn. Lifted weights. Most of the same regulars who did early morning before anemia kicked me out.

Coffee with Adam at the Odd Café in West Asheville. Great to see him, joyful to be in his presence. He leaves today on a journey which leads eventually to his father’s island in Greece. We talked about his plans for a one-man show about Grendel. I asked where he lives now and the answer is “nowhere,” going from gig to gig, sleeping on couches. It’s a life I considered long ago for maybe ten minutes. He is the most dedicated actor I have ever known personally. Not the most ambitious, which may make a difference in time.

May 16, 2019

Long, complicated dream in which I was visiting a foreign city–Moscow, I think– and was bathing in a public bath when I decided to run back to my hotel. I had no clothes, so I wrapped a towel around myself. I kept meeting people who knew me, which was astonishing. One red haired woman with a red haired girl beside her stopped me and said “This is my daughter Gretel. You know my son Hansel.” Kept having to take detours and getting distracted by new sights. I think I dreamed of running because the house was cold and I was trying to keep warm.

Suzanne facing cancer. 

Weeding, I came across a little garter snake. I think it’s the same one I found hibernating under leaves at the beginning of winter. He seems to have a range of about two square yards.

May 14, 2019

Amos Lassen in Jerusalem writes, “You’re a beautiful writer. Reading Falls now, Will post review later.” Suzanne writes that my characters are haunting. SS says I must be the most ecstatic writer since Blake. Since Blake is my god, at least I am keeping the right company.

Moderate gardening, mostly the pulling of noxious vines.  The sheer weight of the biomass is astonishing.

Last night the cats were agitated, and there was a howling and barking of dogs–in my yard. I went out to look. A huge woolly white dog which I took to be a standard poodle ran up on the porch and greeted me, snuggling me and hitting my arm with his paw. I read somewhere that helper dogs will seek out humans if their human is in trouble, so I was prepared to follow him, but he plopped down on my porch like he had lived there forever. Down on the driveway a beagle sniffed maniacally, over and over in the same place. Every now and then they barked and lunged at something in the back yard, I assumed a bear, though there was no sign of any presence like that this morning.

Decided to write Emma Truvain’s poems for her.

May 13, 2019

Mozart a big success yesterday. While it’s a time-devouring duty you forget what an honor and a pleasure it is to sing the great repertoire. Grateful for having done so.

Accidentally took Advil PM with morning grapefruit juice, and dragged about half asleep all day. At least we know they work. Staggered downtown to see the film Tolkien, necessarily selective but, given that, quite good. Downtown so bright with spring light it was hard to look at anything in particular.

May 11, 2019

Hours of rain. Maybe days of rain and I simply have lost track.

Crushing brutally on the electric man. But a guy who wanted to sell me solar power panels enraged me so much I all but threw him out of the house. What had he done? Nothing. Maybe he shouldn’t have told me he was formerly a missionary.

Turned in grades. No indignant emails yet. There is not one student in thirty six years to whom I gave a grade lower than the one they deserved. Maybe I’m being rewarded for that.

Rehearsal for the Mozart Coronation Mass.

Went to the theater last night to see one of the most inexplicably boring and incomprehensible things ever put on stage. Facebook says it is sold-out tonight. I should go drown myself, having no place in this world.

The Hiram book dwells in the midst of refining fire.

May 8, 2019

Though the radio threatens rain, the first of day is sweet, Wedgewood blue, bird-loud. The moon last night was his perfect crescent. I’m sitting at the keyboard in the guest room where I can see when the gas people arrive, wanting to check something. The electrician were here yesterday to check on why the power to the pond pump died. They fixed it for a while, but it’s dead again this morning. They thought a techy breaker switch is the problem. It senses moisture, and how it could NOT sense moisture with the wire underground I don’t know. Anyway, they were as cute as they could be, big and red and goofy. I was sorry when they left. Almost unbelievably, the work from last summer was still under warranty.

First read-through of IAG. Most of the actors weren’t present for one reason or another. Some roles are not yet cast. One smiles. One says “thank you.” One believes that magic will save all in the end.

All Souls Bookfair last night. Finn and his Canta Violino pleased a small audience, made up largely of Finn’s fans. Practically no one I know came, though Charlie made a special trip to buy a book and left before the concert. My book sold the most, with four sales, I think, but I couldn’t help blaming the smallness of the crowd on myself. Maybe Tuesday night is to blame. Finn asked to delay the concert because many Brazilian were coming and they would be on “Brazilian time.” Can’t say I like Brazilian music much, and the concert didn’t shift me from that conviction, though I did appreciate their virtuosity. It was a happy event and people had a good time, and when I think about it, I do admit that I created a sweet evening, sold a few books, restored my connection with Malaprop’s, watched the crescent moon sail above Biltmore. It was as a patron of the arts that my main triumph came. I paid Finn $600 and got $27 from the donations basket. Actually, that is all right.

Planted gay feathers. Noticed that I haven’t paid attention to harmony of colors in my garden, and the effect is riotous, even more riotous than I would have liked.

The gas guy just called and said he was in South Carolina and was not going to make our appointment, and could I wait. “No,” I said, “I have to go to school to turn in grades.”
“Oh, you’re  the professor! I graduated UNCA 30 years ago. I remember you.”

Note from Connie saying “I’m reading your book.” After a while I realize she means Night, Sleep. That must mean there IS a book, somewhere.

May 4, 2019

The days swirl away like petals on a flooded river. Needed to write today because it is the Anniversary. I swore I would never forget, and I have not.

All exams given and graded. Will wait till the last minute to record the grades, to keep quarreling at a minimum. Elliott did not take his exam. One shrugs. One realizes the slenderness of the issue.

Already looking back at UNCA as a house aflame from which I escaped just in time. For a while our watchword was “critical thinking,” as it should have been. One almost never hears those words now. Critical thinking has been replaced by allegiance to dogma, though no one will come out, just yet, and say it.  “Critical thinking” is in fact a little frowned upon, for it might put some of the favored under judgment. I FaceBooked the following:

To me, the Academy is that place where an argument based on logic, discussion, and evidence is never trumped or replaced by one based on emotion. The Academy is the place where every dogma, however attractive or au courant, is subject to constant criticism and re-evaluation. The Academy is the place where misapprehensions are discussed and corrected, and not treated as holy. The Academy is where no authority is greater than that of rational discussion. This is not to say that emotion may not triumph over rationality, that a dogma or a misapprehension may not be cherished somewhere else. Not at the University. I myself am several kinds of fanatic, but I believe I am careful to leave my fanaticism, my emotional reasoning, where they can have full play. Not at the Academy.

Many in agreement, but I am amazed by the vehemence of those not in agreement, who say, in so many words, that some have suffered so much that they should not be subject to actuality, should not be expected to speak the truth, should have their delusions not only protected but forced upon others. I do not even exaggerate. I’m not built to accept or even understand this. I do not think of it as kindness. Charity has always been to me helping others, or being helped myself, to see the truth. What these people advocate is enforced infantilzation. I don’t even know that they would deny it. Who am I, after all, to force the injured to face the truth? My response: “a teacher.” The truth is balm for all injuries. So say I, though my voice is not heard.

I realized I was defeated when my own Dean said, “It’s not about truth, it’s about perception.” One closes the books and says, “OK, see you later.”

My rabbit is bigger this year. Love to see him extended at ease in the shade of the maple. I love how he freezes in place, thinking I can’t see him.

Peonies in glorious profusion. Gentle rain.