October 27, 2019

Went to the Magnetic last night to see Camp and the others for the second time. Liked it all better the second time, except for A's, which was even worse than I thought it was. Serena is now Blair and sailing the tossing seas of gender identity. Sat in a row of gay boys, including K H, who introduced himself as a playwright. I hadn’t revealed which play was mine (maybe they guessed) in order to hear their reactions, which were gratifying. They agreed that mine was the “best written.” That is somehow different from “the best,” but I’ll take it. No one in the room was there because of me. No friends, no followers, no students, no one ever once from UNCA. I make friends there, and they come away thinking my work was the best, but somehow I have not gathered a cadre, or sustained the interest of people who generally seem to be my friends. I suppose I repel, or at least don’t encourage, such a thing, but you’d think people who know me would come out anyhow, if nothing else, out of curiosity. I feel anonymous in my own village. Talked with MP afterwards, who is as sad as I as the direction of NCS. Someone is right now generating new additional (I almost said “fresh”) versions of Jeeves so they’ll have something to stage.

But this has been a blinding brilliant blue autumn day. I let the state of my throat give me an excuse from church, went to High 5, where I got the next section of Sam-sam longhanded out. Then went to the studio and worked long, hard, and well. I worked long, hard, and well despite the fact that my studio was flooded and most of my big finished canvases were ruined, or at least compromised in some way. Maybe they’ll dry without warping. Maybe I’ll toss them in the dumpster without caring too much. Everything is prelude. In the past the flood has seeped in through the walls. This time it poured down from the ceiling. The trash can and other upright vessels were full of brownish water.  Add to that the annual sickening influx of stinkbugs. One of the men whom Stephen describes as drunken frat boys who manage the property came by and promised to fix everything. “That would be nice,” says I, like an idiot. Closed my eyes to all that, and painted, and was happy.

Carlos admits the Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers is delayed (by three years, by my count) by cash flow problems. I promise to write a check. I don’t know if I could sustain the shock of actually once being paid for my work.