October 23, 2020
Morning spent on a mountainside in Crusoe. Candice had everything planned elegantly, a plan thrown off by my arriving, as I always do, early. She made me mint tea. She and Ken live off Sharp Mountain Road, in a place which any taste would consider paradise. They have two red dogs who romp inexhaustibly. The larger of the two is a love machine, who crowds up against you until you hold him, and he lingers in your embrace with a blissful look on his face. You don’t get that from cats. They live on the banks of the Pigeon River, whose stones we crossed to get to the mountainside where she wanted to film, because of the morning light. Adam appeared and helped direct me through it. This is only the second time in my career when I’ve done much on camera, and the first seems (blessedly) to have disappeared. I did the “This battle fares like to the morning’s war” soliloquy from Henry VI . It made me wish I were doing it on stage night after night, for a little of the bliss came back of being able to realize repeatedly the same words, and get something new and different and deeper out of them each time. This happens mostly with Shakespeare. . . and with me. (Grin). I was nervous about it, but I ended up enjoying myself. They assured me my stage experience was not causing me to overact for the camera, but I wasn’t sure. Will decide when the time comes whether to watch the broadcast of “In Our Solitude.” When we began to sing, five bulls walked up from the forest. Formidable as they appeared, they turned out to be much like the dogs, curious and friendly, though weighing half a ton and with horn untrimmed. Beautiful animals, immense deep, sad eyes.
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