July 30, 2019

Haircut from a kid who wore a shirt printed with roses, who came from Winston-Salem to Asheville for a girl. He said, “Of course it didn’t work out.” He was maybe 26 and had dyed his hair exactly the color of mine. I wanted to say, “Just wait a while.” He introduced me to the “Acro Society,” people who do acrobatics as a hobby, I gathered, to whom a more recent girlfriend was going to dedicate her energies as a masseuse.  Found a way to resurrect The Handsomest Man in the World. The $$ I have left over in my SECU account at the end of the month is the amount I used to get paid.

Thought of Jeff Rackham and his kindness through the day.

July 29, 2019

Coffee again with Bill A. More talk of days gone by and days to come. Received a call (7 hours after the agreed-upon time, but oh well) from the “Title IX expert,” who turns out to be from Connecticut. I’d been fairly precise on my written complaint, so not much of substance was added, but she seemed a reasonable and open-minded person, and I, for the first time, felt heard. Yet another bison lumbered his weight up off my chest. When I think that UNCA actually had to pay her for this, my gratitude increases. The only thing she didn’t do that she ought to have done is talk to the faculty. They are the ones that feel the reign of terror. They would have backed me up ferociously. Maybe I don’t need, this time, to be backed up ferociously.  I praise God for this. I feared it would blacken the last year of my career.

Wrote the last page of Jason of the Apes.

July 28, 2019

Rose and sat in the café but wrote nothing memorable. I was feeling sick. Urgent visit to the restroom while I was there. Came home, lay down, feeling sick. Circe lay on my arm and we slept. Around noon I felt well, and went out and did some gardening in the matchlessly beautiful summer day. Still felt, and feel, sickness and health warring inside me, relieved each time wellness comes out ahead. Purple flowers teeming with black butterflies.

July 27, 2019

Shoulder still in a bad way. Vodka helps. Wrote on the last chapter of Jason at High 5. Talked with Peter C. Some time at the studio, but fairly pervasive body ache drove me away. A big man came in and we talked about Gregorian chant. Watched my rabbit for a long time from the back porch. He is extraordinarily red, like the hair of ginger man.

July 26, 2019

The most astonishing, gratifying, unexpected email appeared in my University box:

Garikai "Kai" Campbell
Jul 24, 2019, 9:06 AM (2 days ago)
to me

Dr. Hopes, 

I am sorry that this is our first interaction, but I am the new provost and vice chancellor for academic affairs. I have been updated about your very serious concerns about the process surrounding the handling of a recent Title IX complaint. I am aware that your concerns were brought to the attention of President Roper at the System Office. We, UNCA, have taken the charge of investigating our process very seriously and have brought in outside expert counsel to look into things. 

This person is a Title IX subject matter expert from another institution and the review that this person is undertaking involves talking with a number of employees to get a better understanding of our processes and procedures. The hope is that this expert can speak with you tomorrow between 3:00 and 4:00, either in person, by Skype or by phone. 

If you are interested in speaking, please let me know which you would prefer and if the latter, how best to set that up. 

The review will conclude with a follow-up to both you and Dr. Roper. I am running now, but will try to follow up by phone a little later today if we can't connect via email. 

Please do feel free to call or email me with any questions, and I will do my best to have those questions answered.
Best,
Kai

It is the first indication I ever had that anyone had heard a syllable of my crie de coeur. Unfortunately I read the mail too late to participate in the way suggested, but I emailed and phoned my gratitude and willingness to participate in any way now possible.  I don’t know why this needed to be a surprise. I have awakened almost every morning fighting this issue away from my consciousness, fighting the shade this insane unfairness and destructiveness cast on my hours. I could have been at some measure of peace had I known I hadn’t been ignored. The unexpected effect was of a bison rising up from my chest and letting me breathe free, palpable and considerable relief. Who knows how it will turn out? The person’s being a “Title IX subject matter expert” is a little ominous, and suggests I should prepare myself for contact with a True Believer. Nevertheless, someone other than me has been made to worry a little. This is one of the few incidents in my life where I have been absolutely in the right, and I must keep faith until the end.
Eventful day in other ways. I cleaned out and re-ordered the tool shed, broke down the table and various storage boxes that had been on the east porch since last Memorial Day. I hacked the bamboo away that had been overhanging the elderberries, proving that bamboo will surrender to a handsaw. Weeded a little less than yesterday. Fell when I was weeding– a rather prolonged and comic fall, I should have thought had I been looking on.  I suppose I should be grateful that my shoulder aches but is not broken.

And, I watched a raccoon climbing about in my towering pine.

July 25, 2019

Mother’s birthday. I’ll try to think as much about her today as I can. She has been gone 45 years. It is cruel and wrong. D mentions that her father, my mother’s little brother, never recovered from her death.

Yesterday I took advantage of the cool and gave the world one of the banner days in the history of weeding. I was almost inexhaustible, though my back tells the story this morning. Most of the needing-to-be-weeded ground was at one point cultivated and mulched, so things were easier than they might have been. One finds things that one didn’t expect– seedlings of native hibiscus, a pink garden phlox that must have imported itself from somewhere, forgotten acanthus that just needed excavation from its roof of vines. Two or three more such days and the weed issue will be solved.

Thought of this: It puzzled me why I didn’t get a job my first year having completed my Ph.D. Then the credentials department at Syracuse made a mistake and sent me a copy of my packet, with all the records and recommendations in it. I opened it and read the recommendations that I was not supposed to read, and discovered that my adviser had been sabotaging me, but not completely out of malice. He was a fine dissertation director, and I learned much from him. At one point he said, “I think we can schedule the defense now.” I said, “So, I can go ahead and put together a final copy?” His answer was “Yes.” No one typed his own dissertation (this was 1979) because of the footnotes and corrections, etc, that are not too much of a problem on a computer but suicide-inducing on a typewriter. I was a grad student, working at a liquor store, and the going rate for typing a dissertation was $250. This panicked me. I mentioned it to my dad, and he offered to pay. You’d have to know the history of my dad and me to know how unexpected and wonderful this was. So, I hired this lady (forget her name, but have a vivid picture of her in my mind. She looked like Rosemary Harris, Spiderman’s aunt in the first movie). Had my defense, which was actually kind of fun. (Side note: I am NEVER late. But I was late to my Dissertation Defense because I had it marked down for the wrong day, and I had to run from my apartment to the U, and arrived pouring sweat). At the end my dear Professor said, “Well, now, I think we can make the final revisions and get this printed up.” My heart sank through the floor. It was all done and paid for, and he wanted revisions. Actually, he wanted one revision, that he had hinted at in the past, but kept saying “you’ll figure it out” when I asked him what it was. In the following days I brooded on this. It wasn’t just the money. Since my dad had paid for it, had participated in my education at that point, the typed dissertation was a sacred object to me. Also, I thought the desired revision was petty and arbitrary. Today, of course, it would be the effort of a moment. I decided that I would rather leave without my degree than do this. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to explain my thoughts or my emotions, but simply said to my committee that I would not revise and would leave without the degree. All of them but my director, were on my side, and so, somewhat to my astonishment, I won the day and got the degree. The rest is history. Do these things cast shadow on your succeeding life? I’m sure they do. Do I owe a debt on this or am I owed one? To paraphrase Viola in Twelfth Night, “Time, you must untie this knot, not I. It is too hard a knot for me to untie.”

Dreams last night included B, twice. In each case he drove a car too close to people who were standing along the street. The first time everyone jumped back in time. The second time there was a wall or a rail, and the last person in line had his legs severed. B looked back from the speeding car, smiling.

July 24, 2019

One of my colleagues brags on Facebook that she will not allow debate in her classroom on certain convictions she has related to gender and race. I want to respond “you must resign,” but fear the world would hear my words and not hers. The University no longer presents itself as a forum for Free Speech. We are a tree forsaking its roots. We cannot stand as we were, but become a mouthpiece for various fashionable dogmas. How can I convince my colleagues that one dogma is, in the formal sense, no different from another, and equally in need of debate and scrutiny? That to shut off debate is to admit to not being sure you have the truth. I clearly do not have the power to fight this one, having been bitten in the ass by this very debate. Perhaps I should thank the stars that I will be exiting before it becomes the necessary fight. I want to stand in the Quad crying “Alas!”

July 23, 2019

Gentle rain. Lovely, but the weeds will be unconquerable. Put some sliced lunchmeat out on the lawn for the crows. Mayhem! They are the most curious mix of aggression and caution. Writing. . . writing. . .

July 21, 2019

Planted red daylilies before the heat set in. Dug out some stands of bamboo. Cleaned the pond filter. The fringes of the property are becoming what I want them to be, a full radiant tangle like the gardens of Cambridge.

My peaches and nectarine were fully loaded, the one in the side yard so heavy with fruit it leaned against the house. All of that is gone. It wasn’t people, because the fruits weren’t ripe. Nobody has sighted bears, and I think I would have heard them chomping so close to the window.

July 20, 2019

Got on Instagram, I think for the first time.

Decided that my new interest is going to be Jakob Josef Orlinski. Sent him a Facebook friend request. I’ll write a play for him.

My house looks like a cottage in a fairy tale, all surrounded by flowers.

Pretty good painting at the studio. A guy from DC came in and talked a long time. People assume you’ve been listening to their thoughts and know what they’re talking about when they start in.

Sent a huge donation to M’s cat shelter in Costa Rica. She wants me to write out a horror story she made up. It’s a good one, but I wonder if she thinks I don’t have more than enough of my own ideas to fill my days.

July 19, 2019

Red Hen asks to see Tub. Whole new subplots for Jason.

Took a census of the trees and more permanent shrubs in my yard. Hydrangeas and hibiscus fell arbitrarily below the line, and I’m sorry.
* planted by me
** volunteer

Northwest corner, outside the fence:

Dogwood
Mulberry*
white double rose-of-Sharon*
chaste tree*
purple buddleia*
cultivated cherry*
cultivated cherry*
mulberry*
2 dogwoods

Behind te dogwoods, before the house

peach*
Southern magnolia*
6 trunked black cherry
tiny volunteer dogwood**

South of the driveway

persimmon*
9 holly trees

Front yard

2 red buckeyes*
fringe tree*

East side of drive

Catalpas (Not sure of this: catalpa leaf, but flowers born upright, like an elder)
red oak
many hemlocks, probably belonging to the neighbor
red buds
sugar maple
white lilacs
red bud
white lilac
sugar maple (south side of pond)

North of pond:

stewartia*
sugar maple
viburnum*
rhododendron*
Witch hazel*
nectarine*
bamboo
two elders (some seedlings)*
magnolia*
tulip tree**

North side

Asian cypress*
Asian spruce*
sassafras*
lilac*
peach*
pear*
paw-paw*
sassafras*
paw-paw*
purple rose-of-Sharon*
many lilacs*
two black tupelos
persimmon*
witch hazel*
pear*
rhododendron*

In yard:

sugar maple
purple buddleia*
European spruce*
blue spruce*
chaste tree*
dogwood.**

July 18, 2019

Morning coffee with Bill Ashton. I have a pretty good summary of his life since he graduated in, I think, 1990. Everyone’s life seems knottier and more full of incident than mine. He is exactly the same person, with an overlay of politeness more noticeable than it was back in the day. I’d forgotten he was a disciple of AW. To have both AW and me in one’s pantheon seems almost inconceivable, but there you are. We talked about the ways in which we are satisfied with ourselves as teachers, whatever others may think.

July 17, 2019

Big gathering at the Chancellor’s big house last night, billed as a “literary conversation.” It was much bigger than I expected it to be when I accepted the invitation. Cops helped us park, charming young women bussed us to the Chancellor’s door. Main literary lights of Appalachia, led by Wiley and not including me, were helping to advocate a series of literary programs at UNCA, all ambitious, all at one time advocated by somebody else (two of them by me), illustrating that the best ideas do not thrive on their own merits, but require the right advocate at the right time. Wiley’s energy and charisma make the ideas seem viable, and that is well. My guess is that one of the three will actually come to pass. Merritt and Amy both say The Falls of the Wyona is beautiful. My guess is that more people have already read that than have read my poems since I began writing them. The author of the StellaLuna series turns out to be a Grove Park neighbor. I had Thanksgiving dinner in his house when it belonged to Leni Sitnick.

July 15, 2019

Took the cool early morning to do some weeding. Did the weeding, but came back in a frenzy of itching from the onslaught of mosquitoes. Didn’t see one of them, yet the little red circles of itch arise on arms and neck and ankles. Crabgrass and poke took the removal of layers of vine where the pine had been as an opportunity to take over.

One of those perfect summer days: some gardening; writing at the café in the morning, a productive time at the studio, then home for a nap and typing into the manuscript the pages written longhand at the café. A woman from Nashville (who wrote her Master Degree in History thesis on the Economics of the Ante Bellum Woman, bought two small paintings. I couldn’t get the Square to work (what the fuck is my password?) So I gave her my address so she can send me a check. SL was affectionate. Painted to Russian church music.

July 13, 2019

Excellent morning in the studio–after long absence. Easing back into narrative.

Have been invited to be part of BPR’s Public Forum. At the first meeting in October I’ll discover what that means.

Heat. As much heat as even a lizard like myself can want.

July 12, 2019

To the Magnetic to see Crimes and Misdemeanors, an evening of sketch comedy which was, somewhat against expectations, truly funny, skillfully written and expertly performed. Usually some part of me wished I’d stayed home. Not tonight. As usual, conversed with people who clearly knew me but whom I didn’t know from Adam. Context is all. . . .

July 11, 2019

Great spasms of rain. Photos of the Fresh Market parking lot, which I had just left, flooded. The bounty of nature gets ahead of me, and I glance at the garden, unable to blur out those parts badly in need of weeding. The hibiscus, native and otherwise, climb the rain into full bloom. Work on the novels limited by the condition of my eyes.

July 10, 2019

Wonderful dinner with Casey, a wonderful young man. He and Adam make me marvel at the energy young actors put into their careers without much security at the end of it. All the professional theaters I know of regionally hire New York actors when (often) just as good dwell here. I think specifically of MB, who could have done a better job of Nellie Forbush in South Pacific than the girl they brought (I suppose at great expense) from New York. Asheville’s bench is not deep, and often one sees the same barely adequate players again and again, but on the front bench are some who could play anything, and should have the chance. Many who would deepen that bench are driven away by the lack of opportunity. What an odd art theater is! When I was working with Ann and her dancers I realized that 13 year old dancers have more specific technique than graduate acting students. Too much technique leads to formality and rigidity, I suppose, but where’s the sweet spot in between? There’s so much theater here that people without much dedication or skill can be cast constantly. The gulf between them and those WITH dedication and skill is often the most notable quality of a production. None of these things can be said, especially by an “insider,” or a playwright who needs the goodwill of all, good and less good, to do his work. I suppose I sigh over the truth that theater, in the provinces anyway, must resign itself to being a volunteer, amateur art, and those volunteers may rightfully balk when too much is expected from them.  Casey and I talked of SW. C honors him, so I kept to myself my conviction that S willed himself, repeatedly, into obscurity and mediocrity. I offered alliance several times. Each time he scurried away with excuses that still seem ludicrous or, more forgivingly, fearful. Is it a Southern thing or an academic thing, or what kind of thing is it to misunderstand enormously, absurdly, and yet never dare to ask a single question to clear things up? Every time I have been in trouble with my community here, it involved a misunderstanding that could be cleared up in five minutes. No, I am not equally at fault. When I sense a misunderstanding, I inquire. This inquiry is, however, often characterized as “aggression” and talked about behind my back. I’ve lived here 36 years and have not yet mastered the art of indirection.

July 9, 2019

Russell and DJ and I at movie night at DJ’s, an inventive Spider Man cartoon. Someone asks of someone in the film, “What kind of man do you want to be?” Astonished to realize I never asked myself that question, sort of just proceeded from one incident to another, cobbling it together.

July 8, 2019

Didn’t remember ordering, but I must have, since I received in the mail a copy of The Glacier’s Daughters from Powell’s books in Portland. The inscription reads, “To Julie, to honor her graduation, her many achievements, and her lost backpack. St. Brigid’s Day, 1983.” then signed by me. I’m thinking it must have been Julie Kane, though who knows now. The book looks like it has never been opened. Each instance of this is devastating. How little one meant to people who meant something once.

July 7, 2019

Found my first college roommate online, wrote him a postcard asking, “Do you remember me?” He was one of the great disappointments of my life. It would serve me right if the feeling was mutual. He was like my first brother-in-law: someone with whom you were supposed to have a relationship, but, by reason of weirdness, could not. Still haven’t decided if I will sign the card.

Immense treasure of bird life in the backyard. Bunnies feeding in peace.

Casey writes that he will be in town and wants to see me this weekend. I carry my phone around expecting the call– of course, nothing.

Good work on Jason. I’d forgotten that the volume of work I can get done in a day is dependent upon my eyes, which weary long before evening.

Hot. Exactly the hot of July 7.

July 6, 2019

Contemplating something JN wrote online. Every now and then you are brought up short by the revelation that you are someone’s quintessence of evil. The hallmark of the last two years has been the knowledge that some people hate me so much they make up whole mythologies in which I am Satan, Sauron, Stalin. There is no defense, not merely because it isn’t true, but because one cannot clearly understand the accusation. How to defend against a deed or an attitude which has never so much as crossed your mind? Yet, the vehemence of the accusation convinces one that SOMETHING lies behind it, that one has done something so heinous in the eyes of another that she will stop at nothing to strike back. But what? What was I actually saying when ghastly things were heard?

July 5, 2019

Goldfinches have been feeding from my great steeples of mullein. Saw a pair of pileated woodpeckers fly into the hedge across the street. I’ve left a dead maple to tempt them here. The thrashers play on the lawn, lunging at each other, then at invisible things which I assume are insects. Myriads of some sort of beetle (or bee-- I have not gone out to look) hover inches over the grass. That may explain the recent multitude of birds.

Went downtown today to have a look. Went into the galleries that were open.  Acquired nothing but a glass of iced tea. The Jeremiahs are correct that the pressure of tourists has changed downtown, and not for the better. Came home exhausted, feeling that I had been to a smallish and not very interesting American town.

Progress on Jason early in the morning.

July 4, 2019

Couldn’t bring myself to listen to the President. Apparently he mentioned how the Continental Army distinguished itself at Fort McHenry and took the precaution of securing the airports first. ONE such faux pas would have sunk any other President. Stupid people are so happy at having one of their own in the White House that they will hear no evil of him. Stupid is bad enough– throw in evil, dishonest, dishonorable, and self-serving and you have a mix unique in history. Watched fireworks over New York harbor.

July 3, 2019

Rebooked better flights. Glad, actually, not to be driving. They snuck in return flights on American Airlines. Here I am assuming dark lightning cannot strike again as it did before. Vowed never to book American on purpose. Raccoon foraging on my porch last night. He looked very skinny. Unless he can get into the supermarket dumpster, I don’t know what he can find to eat.

Crows have been mobbing the house, calling in weird and plaintive cries. I would be disturbed were I a marker of portents.

July 2, 2019

Sit in the café and make satisfying progress on Jason of the Apes. I arrive at the crack of dawn and then complain that there’s never anybody I know. Spent the entire morning making reservations for a flight to Ohio, then turning around and cancelling everything because it was too weird, too hard, too expensive. To get to Akron, they fly me to Orlando, give me an overnight layover, then fly me back north in the morning. Decided to drive. It’s been many years since I drove that route.

July 1, 2019

A third woodchuck. The exterminators give me a break on the price, a sort of volume discount. Weeding good, but ended late in the morning by the hot sun. The volume of weed is quite astonishing.