St. Stephan's Day

 

December 26, 2022

Home in gathering dark on Saint Stephan’s Day. Long, uneventful drives, except for about 100 miles each way fighting off drowsiness.  Drive home lengthened by an hour by backed-up traffic on 26. Pyramids have been built in less time than it has taken to widen that road. 

The growing family is well and happy. We don’t have the quarrels that TV sit-coms assign to American families, or if we do, I’m not part of them. Daniel and David are inseparable, and their wives are best friends. Daniel has bought a house three door from his brother. They are trying to make paradise, and so far are succeeding. Daniel gave me a sculpture of a road runner. Daniel called a color “gay,” and then drew me aside to apologize. Hope I established what a non-issue it was.  The happy dogs Luna and Scarlet made everybody smile. Linda and I talked about mom and dad until sadness stopped us. 

Christmas Eve service seemed somber, beautiful but remote, like a snow globe held at the end of the arm.  Maybe it was, maybe it was my mood. 

 

December 24, 2022

Christmas Eve

Sharp and bitter cold. The computer claims the temperature outside is 1. My windows are scenically frosted. The kitchen will be unliveable unless I bake. Water froze on the inside of the attic stained glass, which now drips into liquid in the southern sun. As this has been the Year of Incompetent Service, and as I saw no signs that they had actually “insulated” the furnace drain, I sort of figured it would freeze and shut down my furnace. As I must have observed in the past, I have a nine-month-old furnace which was improperly installed (perhaps improperly chosen) and which now heats fine on warm days and shuts off when it’s really cold because its drain pipe freezes. I tell this to the Champion lady on the phone and she says cheerily, “Yes, we have a couple of those.”  Lovely, darling, but what do you do about them? She began the sentence, “We have nobody available today, but tomorrow–” when I cut her off abruptly. The end of that was that sweet Tim was at my door in about 40 minutes. He confirmed my suspicions, and showed me the several ways in which the installation had been substandard. “Don’t even know the laws of physics, do they?” He seemed to be angry at the ineptitude, at least partially because it caused him to shamble through my yard on the coldest night of any year. There turns out to be a temporary work-around, whereby the furnace works but spits water into the dirt floor. That will have to do until they appear again today. Tim is my advocate, I believe. I gave him a box of pumpkin cookies. I can foresee today’s discussion. There are solutions, each forbidden by the “inspectors.” No inspector will ever look upon that furnace again in my lifetime, is my guess. I will have to test, once again, the advocacy of a steely “Do it!”

Slept badly, maybe from the turbulence of material matters. 

Maud in her cycles now sleeps with me. She takes a flying leap from wherever she is to land on the bed, which can be quite startling if you're in the same bed asleep. 

Evening: Tim’s final words last night was that he was going to get on everybody and shake thing up and get my furnace fixed today. Of course, though I stayed glued to the house anticipating it, no such thing happened. It makes me sorry to have this to think about on Christmas Eve. 

 

December 22, 2022

H sends a photo of herself surrounded by the flowers of a Florida Christmas. Had things been different I might have married her, and had things been exceptionally well, we might be married to this day. That would have been OK, from this side, for her expression is happy and fulfilled. A little old man with a little old lady on his arm. Almost inconceivable now. Not so much then. The first letter I wrote from my terrible room on Baltimore Street was to her, on stationery, I remember now, she had bought me. 

In a dream I decided that I’d get back to my academic career as an independent scholar. I prepared an article called “A Reading of Canto XX.” Looked at Canto XX when I woke. It deserves to be written about, the exultation of learning a vanished language (in this case, Provencal) and the sadness that at the beauty once expressed by it is now an echo, a fragment, a ghost.

Packet from the mortgage company containing a large check, as my escrow account was apparently over subscribed. My monthly payment goes down $200 a month next year. One receives caress as one receives the blow, marking them for any possible wisdom, moving on.

Winter

 

December 21, 2022

If winter come . . . .

Watched The Banshees of Inisherin. It’s about friendship and the end of it. You think that because it’s more casual and less needy than love that friendship need not die dramatically. But, sometimes it does. An ending to it seems more cruel, because the commitment had been less intense, and trespasses more easily forgivable. Z made up a story of how he was cutting back on his business and would not be accepting new appointments. I assumed there was more to it than that, but went along. Research reveals that he hasn’t cut back on his activities at all, but needed a gentle way to get rid of me. He was right. It was gentle. I think he could have just said, “I don’t want to see you anymore,” but my testimony for candor in this case is probably insincere. He expended effort getting away from me without making a big deal of it, and I’m grateful. I think back on T, who for twenty years was the most important person in my life. He started to change tables when we met at the café, or asked me to leave if Wind came in and they needed to talk “business.” The business was how to sell their idiotic film scripts. The last time I saw him was in the early days of the pandemic. It was in the post office, and he said, “You want to get together sometime?” “Yes” “Ok, I’ll call you.” Never did. Nor did I call him. He made very clear that I was no longer his preferred company. By the time it happened, the relationship was ready to fade. We used the same gesture of rejection each to our own ends. 

Redid an old painting. Light comes through it like stained glass. 

 

December 20, 2022

Baroque Christmas music. Sudden vivid memory: I’ve just arrived at Hiram as a freshman and the Baldwin Wallace music department is presenting an evening of Bach at Hayden Auditorium. I’ve never heard of Bach, and I ask someone about it and they can’t believe I’d never heard of Bach. I cross the street, attend the concert, and it changes my life. Is this a recollection or part of a dream? Can I really not have known Bach? I do remember what struck me was the antiquity of the music, as though it were the first ever in the world. The discovery of Renaissance and Gothic were further shocks. 

Fascinating vestry meeting, an old troublemaker up to her old designs. I express my wonder that people have the patience and energy to carry malice on through the long months. I’ve recognized the futility of many a battle, based on the fact that I just couldn’t keep enthusiasm up. 

Art beginning to pile up. Where will I store these paintings? How will I get them seen? 

L came to fix the closet door, explaining that, as the house is old and the floors no longer level, many things will be going awry. I asked “How much do I owe you?” and he said, “You gave me a truck.” He’s invited random people to my New Years party, effectively doubling attendance. That must be acceptable behavior somewhere way out West. 

ASCC rehearsal. I was alone on the 2nd bass part. I like that.

 

December 18, 2022

Finished the revision of Jason. 

Cold sinks in from the west. I’ll spend the next four months shivering. 

 

December 17, 2022

Revising, waiting for paint to dry to finish my Granny Smiths.

As for the revising, so much of it is finding alternatives to “to be.” This includes my reflexive use of the form “he was driving” rather than the simpler, and almost always better, “he drove.”  Part is putting in contractions where more formal expression had been. Part is seeing how many little words can be cut from a line and still maintain my rhythm. I can be elliptical. Many passages have to be filled out as to meaning even as they’re being reduced as to diction. I explain the wrong things, and cut long paragraphs while asking myself why I thought anyone would need to know that. 

The absolute joy of being assured I don’t have rehearsal this morning.

 

December 15, 2022

Rain. More rain. Considering that half the country lies under five feet of snow, we don’t complain

Stopped by Metro Wines, where the clerk was a woman whose wedding I conducted by lakeside a few years back. I asked if the marriage had worked, and she admitted that it had not. I wanted to say “not my fault,” but, of course, she hadn’t blamed me. 

Caught myself spinning my wheels on old grievances, unfinished quarrels, unhealed affronts. Prayed the spontaneous prayer, “Lord, grant that I not  be such a petty fuck.” .

DJ and I at Rye Knot taking advantage of a minuscule price reduction. 

 

December 14, 2022

Actually writing this on the 15th, having deleted this day’s entry before saving it. I recall writing about the stab of grief I felt when Conrad’s stocking fell out of the ornament box. Rehearsing for the Chamber Choir concert. A good selection. SS proposes a reading of Ben & Angela.

 December 13, 2022

In a Christmas greeting mood, looked up my old address book. The first six people in it are dead. 

Spent $100 on Christmas ornaments in Biltmore Village. Not even sorry. 

Jason of the Apes thawing like a glacier. 

Brightest and Best

 

December 12, 2022

Clear morning. “There Is No Rose” at All Souls Sunday morning, then the 2nd helping of AVLGMC in the afternoon. The crowd was huge–about capacity– and our success was, I think, definitive. Joyful exercise to be singing. People weeping in the house during “Salvation is Created.” Me weeping during “Brightest and Best.” Lower level of drama than usual. Maybe that was part of our success. Came home and set up the Christmas tree, a rather odd and scraggly thing by day, but magical by night. Drank freezing vodka, fed Maud bits of ham, watched TV by Christmas light. 

Several people at the concert commented on how young and well I look. I say it’s better to look well than to feel well, so–

Easing now toward night. I walked a little along the Parkway, went to the Folk Art Center and bought a tree ornament in the shape of a banjo. 

Concert

 December 10, 2022

AVLGMC Christmas Concert at Grace Covenant Presbyterian, whose pastor was creepily insistent on sharing her pronouns. The program was well chosen, and right in the sweet spot that utilizes the best of our talents. I watched the faces of the crowd, and they were joyful. Made me joyful, as such an event hasn’t in a long time. My usual reaction to the end of a chorus season is relief. A thing well accomplished.

Jason

 

December 9, 2022

Perceived needful revision of Jason, a joyful proposition that eased some stiff place in my heart, that knew something was wrong but not exactly where. A flow of honey.

 

December 8, 2022

Trying to think why so many of my old paintings were dark. Dark makes everything more dramatic. The images I see in my head have often to with the night. 

Dress rehearsal for AVLGMC considerably less grueling than usual. Our theatrical sensibility has always been lacking. When we bother at all we mistake camp for theatrical sensibility. The singing doctors have a rendition of “O Holy Night” that tries one’s patience half way through. But, one bright bell in the holiday chorus. 

Haircut

 

December 7, 2022

Pearl Harbor.

Warnock wins in Georgia, but one is dismayed nevertheless by the slim margin of victory. A million and a half people are willing to vote for a man whose first trait is violence and whose second is stupidity. Trump started a trend for voting for the worst person imaginable as a kind of satanic jeu-d’esprit. 

Finished Lake Powhatan.

Felt my spirit backing away from the extra rehearsals planned for the Chamber Chorus. I’m retired and I have no time. This week the worst of it is over. 

Finished a revision of Nighthawks.

Got a fairly radical haircut. 

Footsteps

 

December 6, 2022

The mystery of who was making big-animal sounds on the roof (I feared for I while UNDER the roof) was solved when I went out to see a turkey rampant on the porch roof. His neck was stretched toward the horizon, as though he were using that high point to plot a route. How a turkey on the roof manages to sound like an intruder stomping up the stairs is not yet known. 

The editor of APR saw my Fairy Tale poem on Facebook and asked to have it for the next edition. That is a record: sketch to publication in one day. 

Walked along the river in light rain. 

 

December 5, 2022

Began the day with a trip to the Y. My body hurt in so many and various places and ways I thought I’d take a gamble that it was lack of use, and I was right. A man with an artificial leg was shooting baskets. He was so smooth and adept I didn’t realize he had an artificial leg until I noticed another one, maybe his not-for-the-gym one, leaning against the wall.

Wrote a poem about throwing poetry magazines away.

Painted on Lake Powhatan.

Lay on the bed half-napping, listening to Christmas music. 

A productive, and therefore a happy, day.

Cookies

 December 4, 2022

Lessons & Carols in the AM. Brought my cookies to the church kitchen. 

Still in baking mode, took some cannabis butter that’s been lying in the freezer for several years, and used it to make chocolate chip cookies. I didn’t know how to measure the butter, so my cookies pack a major wallop. I didn’t eat even one, but just the leftover batter off the spoons and I was–and am– flying. Reminds me of Amsterdam. My body is registering no pain or inflammation, which was the original point. Many typos, though, to go back and correct. 

 

December 3, 2022

Baked pumpkin cookies, a double recipe. 

 

December 2, 2022

Some gentle haunting may be underway. Garden tools I’d stacked against the house were scattered across the lawn this morning. As I wrote, I heard very distinct and unmistakable footsteps on the attic stairs, and not Maud’s velvet touch. I got up to look and there was nothing. 

Watching muted truck crash videos to the music of Josquin Des Pres. 

 

December 1, 2022

Hauled books to Malaprop’s to be sold on consignment. They ordered the easier-to-get ones on their own. This could have been done years ago, but I— have no excuse. Played a little downtown while delivering the books. Homeless in every bit of shelter. It would seem to me that of human afflictions this would be very nearly the easiest one to remedy. Had a neck and back massage from a Chinese guy at the Mall, from which I came feeling like a new man. Compared to most of the masseurs I’ve employed, this guy was brutal, but brutal has, in some senses, always suited me. 

Infuriating rehearsal. 

 

November 30, 2022

Great things happening in China and Iran. 

Painting like mad. Fluid and unexpected.

 

November 28, 2022

Early morning at the Toyota dealership, getting all things made right, including a nail taken out of a tire. They send you a video of your car, with someone narrating the particulars of the overhaul. They remarked repeatedly on my low mileage, insinuating that I never drive. My insistence that I do seemed not to move them. My service manager was an extremely lovely young lady with red, red hair. 

Brief walk in the forest off the Parkway. My heel hurt, so it was not as long as I planned. Wind blew, but the forest seemed very silent. I keep forgetting that the Parkway runs along the tops of mountains, so naturally wildlife will be sparse. Only the ravens really want to live that high.

Crossdressers

 

November 27, 2022

Disturbing vivid dream last night: L and I live in a huge mansion high on a hill in the midst of a city. We are attacked be a succession of big men dressed as women, who come onto the porch and try to invade the home. I manage to fight them off, but wonder how, since they are all considerably bigger than me. I don’t, in the dream, wonder why they are dressed as women. In exceptionally good voice this morning at church. 

Bluebirds

 

November 26, 2022

Fluttering of bluebirds around the pool. They looked exceptionally bright, as if each had his own spotlight. 

 

November 25, 2022

Contemplating what might have happened in my brain in the two years I went without painting. One way of putting it is that I switched from wondering what I ought to be creating to knowing what I must create. There will likely be no more experimentation with media or styles now, which was the center of my effort before. Paint what you wish to see on the canvas. There is no other consideration. I try to make comparisons between the art of writing and the art of painting, but I’m not sure there is one. Revision has some similarities, the art of looking and seeing “No, that is not quite what you meant.” Winter sky, though not cold. Yellow-bellied sapsuckers and flickers in the garden. A great laundering of bedclothes. 

Thanksgiving

 

November 24, 2022

Thanksgiving morning: pale and wintery, though not very cold. Turned the Macy’s Parade on just as Mariah Carey, looking like overstuffed scarlet sausage, was singing her exhausting Christmas song. Songs of the Pilgrims of Compostello on Pandora. Put heaping mounds of seed out for the Thanksgiving of the birds. For what am I thankful? When I asked that question, the first thing my mind spat out, “I am grateful that for three years I have not been miserable, when I mostly was the forty years before.”

Last Rose

 

November 23, 2022

Gregorian chant.

Planted what MUST now be the very last addition to the garden: a rose promising to be the most exquisite shell pink. In digging the hole, I hit the bamboo runner that had invaded that plot, and managed to pull out about ten feel of gnarly, ugly yellow root. Interestingly, but not really unexpectedly, the motion of planting took the soreness from my arm, so now it’s back to full use. 

 

November 22, 2022

Long, long vestry meeting, without any (or much) of the rancor one expected. Repaired afterwards o the Village Pub, which I liked. 

AVLGMC rehearsal in a big real estate building in the Longhorn Steaks parking lot. Still much of this town I’ve never seen, didn’t suspect existed. The contra D’s in “Salvation Is Created” were easy tonight.

This week’s affliction is inflammation in the right elbow that shoots out excruciating pain if the elbow turns a certain way or tries to bear weight. Pulling bedclothes over me and engaging and disengaging the seatbelt are, for the moment, almost impossible tasks. 

Slept last night without taking any cold pills. 

 

November 21, 2022

A former student observes on FaceBook how I’m a mountain of talent and achievement with an underlining strata of grudge. It’s not that I deny that, but am disconcerted that it’s obvious. Maybe it’s not obvious and he’s shooting into the dark. Painting and writing today, so may all days be. 

 

November 20, 2022

Return to singing, church in the AM, then L’s memorial service in the afternoon. L would move when we happened to sit near each other, saying that my voice (later altering it to a bass voice) threw her off. 

 

November 19, 2022

Listening to Hildegarde, working on my photographer play. I looked at the clock and realized that if I hadn’t been stricken by the ague I would be downtown just now jostling onto the risers to sing Verdi, and gratitude overflows my heart.

Hildegarde

 November 18, 2022

Second day of stainless, unmodulated blue light. 

The drama with the dehumidifier was entirely my invention. It had run so consistently that I forgot that it would turn off automatically when the basement was dry. 

Nine hours of Hildegarde von Bingen available on You Tube. Every now and then an commercial featuring Taylor Swift hawking her record interrupts the music. A very weird juxtaposition. 

Ned Rorem is dead. His Paris and New York Diaries were important cogs in the machine of my brain. 

 

November 17, 2022

Planted the peonies in the coldest weather in which I ever want to be working outside. 

The dehumidifier went out, which I knew because its terrible whining and rumbling was gone. After several attempts, a charming young man was sent. He stomped down into the basement and stomped up again saying “the power was off.” I felt so stupid I didn’t even check to see if it was actually on again (believe it or not, I had checked the power several times). Hours later, I realized it wasn’t, or had switched off again. Chapter 2 today, I hope. This has been the Year of Incompetent Professionals. The second guy I got at Clegg’s remembered me from the raccoon incident, and treated me like royalty. 

Pulled out of the Symphony concert because of the cold, or whatever it is. Its one remnant is that I sound like a frog croaking in a mineshaft. My disappointment is not boundless.

Cancelled my membership to Ancestory.com, feeling that enthusiasm is one for which there is, at present, no time. 

Working through a play which is going well, but for which I cannot imagine a very large audience. Story of my life. 

Painting has been almost magical. 

 

November 16, 2022

The lighting in my attic is going to affect my painting. Only on the streets of Galway have I ever done al fresco. 

Two cartons of peony tubers which I had forgotten arrived. They sit on the rocking chair awaiting their introduction to the good earth. I hope I can gather the fortitude today, as I believe waiting for better weather will be futile. 

 

November 15, 2022

Winter drizzle. I paint in my study while listening to recorded books I forgot I bought long ago. Ulysses now. Intermittently radiant, mostly over-clever and undergraduate. 

 November 13, 2022

Fine salting of snow. I had to jerk hard on the lid of the recycling bin to get it unfrozen. 

Flue aches gone, though the snot Niagara continues. 

Sad dream that I was about to graduate from Hiram the second time, having spent eight years there, and being in terror of having nothing to do afterward. This is a frequent dream, which puzzles me, as no such thing haunted me in real life. 

Senate saved; Republican majority in the House not large enough to do much damage. All in all, a win.

 

November 12, 2022

Flu. Sleepless night because of monumental mucous flow. Body aches. It seems to be over, though, lasting somewhat less that a day– just long enough for me to spend money on remedies I apparently no longer need. 

Reviews of new books on Rilke in the NYRB. I didn’t know he was such a jerk. Most poets speak of him reverently. The books and the review talk much of Rilke’s beliefs as deduced from his poetry. I am not sure a poet’s beliefs are reliably deducible from his poetry, for poetry is, at least in part, an ecstatic state that transcends rather than illustrates conviction. The convictions of most of my poems are a surprise to me. 

 

November 11, 2022

Hurricane rains, which seem to have gone asleep now that it is night. Folia on You Tube.  Worked hard all day. It’s after 9 and I still haven’t crept downstairs to sink into the TV. How to say that my favorite tune is 500 years old? 

Lilies

 

November 9, 2022

Bright autumn. The moon last night was indescribably bright and beautiful. 

Yesterday planted Madonna lilies and black lilies and black parrot tulips, emptying the last carton of fall bulbs. I think there’s still a rose coming through the mail, but when that is set, the fall planting is over for this year.

Have not turned on the radio, not sure I want to know the outcome of yesterday’s election. Have not heard the angelic host cry out, so perhaps there was not, after all, a Republican sweep. Cannot imagine how a person either moral or intelligent can cast a vote Republican, but that is a subject which, in general, cannot be broached. Something seems to balance and overcome dishonesty, treason, vote-tampering, insurrection, stupidity, malice, mendacity, the steely and ignorant will to end democracy in America, but I can’t figure out what. 

Boccherini on You Tube. The red wave didn’t happen. Given the darkness of the expectations, this can be regarded as a victory. Idiots nevertheless entering or clinging to statehouses and assemblies. 

Eclipse

 November 8, 2022

My bladder got me up at the exact right moment to witness the dried-blood eclipse of the moon. He hung over Carolyn’s roof, not only deep red, but seemingly motionless for a long time. When the light began to come back it came deep gold. I wondered if the bears and the night creatures were watching too, and if so, what did they think?

A week or so into my study-studio, I deem it a complete success. I can move from writing to painting without moving at all. I can stare at the painting and the screen almost simultaneously. All those years sunk in superfluity! Best not think of it.

Pond

 

November 7, 2022

Poulenc’s Gloria assigned to eternity last night. I hope it went well. It sounded well. I know I personally never sang it better. Afterwards, I thought of my mother once I had sat down in my car in Biltmore. I had to wait until I had control of myself again. 

This has been a wonderful day. An outsider might deduce I equate “happy” with “productive,” and if I do, it is well. Rose and wrote a poem about my experience in the car in Biltmore. Finished–or at least for the moment achieved–a scene from my symphony play. Went outside and saw that the bears had been at work, knocking the flower pots from the porch like rowdy boys. Planted peonies alleged to be an outrageous pink. Planted jonquil, and tulips that are meant to look like white parrots. The best thing was that I finally addressed the pond, whose stream slowed down months ago and stopped maybe a week past. The water was black and odorous. One fish was at the top, evidently gulping air. I don’t know what I though was wrong with it before– I always think mechanical things are beyond my control, but they are only about 60% of the time. I felt so bad for the little fish that I determined to make it right. The easiest fix turned out to be the right one. I knew the motor wasn’t dead, for it buzzed away under the water. I switched off the current and dug around in the well around the motor– three feet of cold, black, excessively organic water– pulling out great handfulls of muck. The operation was far more loathsome in conception than in application, as things are. Plugged it back in, and water came gushing out of the pipe, scouring away debris like you see on videos of flash floods on the Internet. The whole wide, tiny river came back. I don’t know how long it will take the corruption to clear, but at least one fish knows it’s on its way.

Thought about the difference between typical community theater actors and really good ones while watching the one-acts the other night. The community theater actor tries hard to exhibit the emotion a character SHOULD be feeling at that moment. A good actor forgets that and allows himself to feel what he feels creating the line. Sometime what is suggested by the line and what is on the actor’s face create a delicious richness of disharmony. 

 November 5, 2022

Thinking of something else, I suddenly beheld the answer to SS’s implied question of what I want in a theater. Its physical plan would be like that of the National in London. The Main Stage would have a five production season, three of which would be new plays or premieres, two of which would be great honking classics such as Schiller or Marlowe or Chikamatsu or Moliere or, moving forward, O’Neill and Stoppard. We would procure a gigantic grant and every other year would produce a new opera.  Two or three little theaters or black boxes would expand the offerings into what delights the community at that time. And Pluto himself would fund it from his vast stores underground. 

Watched the rededication of Geffen Hall on TV last night. Liked the commissioned piece– lovely details but lacking in structure. The Beethoven 9th was fully itself and needs no commentary. The bass soloist was magnificent, and wore a sort of black dashiki with gold medallions. The conductor was very strange, with a concealed personality and the tendency to draw quite precise geometric shapes in the air with his hands. 

Cyclamen

 

November 4, 2022

Wrote a poem in fifteen minutes, fifteen minutes before dawn. 

Saw the turkey flock in the west yard and went out to look at them. They swarmed up on the porch around me, poking their beaks forlornly at the empty seed bowl, brushing my legs with their feathers, registering their disappointment that I’d put nothing out for them. My first morning chore was buying seed at Southern States. The giant man there hoisted my sacks into the back of the car, saying, “You’d better use me while you have me.” He was monumental. 

Considerable deposits of bear shit by the pond. They must come exclusively by night now. 

Cyclamen blooms under the bamboo and dried goldenrod. 

The white rose I photographed and wrote of and made a poem upon still blooms the same bloom in the front garden.

 

November 3, 2022

Deep tapestry of dreams last night. In one my apparent avatar was the actor William Hurt, big and blond and slow-talking. Didn’t know he was in my imaginative universe. I was on a long journey with a woman whose identity is lost. We kept discovering new and wonderful things. When the wonderful thing we discovered was an especially noble bathroom, I realized I needed to get up. Later, back to sleep, I locked my cat Titus in a basement and left him there for a long time. It was some kind of experiment. When I opened the door, he was waiting for me, but had turned into a human being, though he still had a cat body. 

All Souls

 

November 2, 2022

All Souls.

Received my third COVID booster at Ingle’s, leaning on my shopping cart. 

One of the baritones from ASC, RJ, passed away in his sleep. He was 12 years younger than I. 

Did a ZOOM class with B’s Smoky Mountain students. Read some of my poems, which are typically better when read than I remember them. It was exciting and they asked good questions.

All Saints

 

November 1, 2022

All Saints.

Watched The Bride of Frankenstein on Hallowe’en night. I hadn’t remembered from my childhood that it is funny. 

Painted my white rose, that it might linger. It has lingered outside the front door, in the flesh, most miraculously. 

Gardening in the autumn cool. Pulled up the dead giants from the front garden, replenished the dirt that rode out on their roots. 

Knee issues seem to be cured–rather spectacularly–by prednisone. There’s ever an underlying ouchyness, but the great scalding flame is gone. 

Realized a certain Trumpishness in myself. When I lose a writing contest or a publication I assume, at some point, that the process was rigged. 

Hallowe'en

 

October 31, 2022

Hallowe’en

Knee aflame. I wonder if it’s gout moving upstream?

Bluebirds inhabited my garden for the last few days. I wait till now to give thanks. 

Bill Henderson has died in Ohio. His article said he left scores of descendants. 

My first trick-or-treat night I was dressed as Robin Hood and I went with older neighborhood kids. The kids– who long ago have left memory– were attentive and kind to me. It was raining. I thought of that as a kind of betrayal.

One time we ventured up the hill into the older houses in Goodyear Heights, where the people were more established and gave better treats. We were scolded for this afterward in a spasm of self-segregation. 

One year the feature was a haunted house down at the end of Goodview. I still remember it with wonder, and hope that the people in the house, wherever they are now, are gratified. 

In fifth grade I had planned out what I felt would be my last trick-or-treat adventure. I was very attentive to the stages of growing up, which I assumed were holy and eternal, wherefore I was disappointed when others didn’t allow them to be sacraments. As I was doning my costume, my father came to my room and said. “You’re not going out tonight. You’re going to stay here and work in the garden.” I asked why, expecting that the answer would be “because I said so.” In that I was not disappointed. So there I was in complete dark, pulling out spent corn stalks and whatnot, wondering what signal I had missed. There was never an explanation. I was not told I had transgressed in some way. . . nothing. If there was meant to be a lesson attached to it, it was lost in “because I said so.” It lingers as a cruelty. Father’s arbitrariness was, if looked at in a certain way, and intriguing mystery. But not to a child trying to understand how to behave. 

I remember the night I went to Scandals topless, dressed as a Genie. I was very, very popular. 

I remember running in the Hiram graveyard with George and Denny and others on a Hallowe’en with a full moon.

I’ve lived in this house for 8 years and no one has come trick-or-treating. My side of Lakeshore is hellacious for pedestrians, as there are no sidewalks. 

My maples are beautiful even now that the peak has passed.

 

October 29, 2022

Found a video of Montford Park’s Dr Faustus from 2008. I was Mephistopheles. I was– to my own surprise–glorious. 

Knees, especially the right, in considerable pain. I began to use my dad’s cane. Though a bit too short, it relieved the issue more than I expected. Walking, lying: fine. Standing up and sitting down: yikes! Almost every malady I’ve had has either cycled through and gone away or settled and become liveable. Waiting for that for this.

My white rose–distinctly if delicately pink– opens like the full moon.

A family of feral cats (there may be 3) have taken shelter in my yard. I try to think of them as just more orphan fauna, welcome behind my walls. One lay among the anemones this afternoon watching the blue jays fly back and forth from the corn I’d put out for them. I don’t feed the cats. They subsist on something, for they are chubby and playful.

Walked to the front of the house to see two men standing on my driveway. They’d parked their car at the end, by the mailbox. Had they knocked? I doubt it, as I was in the kitchen and would have heard them. Their backs were to me, and either they were looking at their phones or taking photos of my dead cosmos. I opened the door, but didn’t call to them, as their dress made me think they were polsters or salesmen or evangelists. They returned to their car without looking back at the house to see me standing watching them. 

 

October 28, 2022

By waiting, as everyone advised me, for the first frost to harvest my persimmons, I allowed somebody (with four legs) to get there before me. 

Finally touched up Glossy Ibis.

 

October 27, 2022

Fine gleaming autumn. 

Cleaning lady incapacitated, which I didn’t know, so I spent 3 hours avoiding her and she never came. 

Voted. No line. 

Sore throat.

Turkeys thronged on my porch like invitees at a cocktail party.

Finished the revision of The Frankenstein Rubrics.

 

October 26, 2022

Five hours of singing last night. Too much. If I can avoid ever singing Verdi again, I will

de la Rue on CD.

In the NYC Playwrights listing, five opportunities exclusively for women, or woman-identifying, whatever that could mean. 

Choir, drinks after. Our favorite waiter got dragged into a discussion of titties. His opinion is that Halle Berry’s are the best. 

Easel

 October 24, 2022

Dropped the ball journal-wise. Rode with DJ to see closing night, and it was very gratifying. The actors were primed and energized, and the audience was with us. I hadn’t realized how funny the play is until the audience showed me the laugh lines. The girl two down from me–I’m told she’s a stalwart on the local stage–laughed so that I worried for her health. The big surprise is that A handed me my check as I left and it was for over $400. Assuming that everybody involved gets the same, that is an unusual haul for local theater. I suppose so, anyway. Compliments all around, at least some of which must have been thoughtful and genuine. I was content. I do not say that after every production.

J and L took me to dinner last night to thank me for the gift of my truck. Rye Knot’s root mash is sublime. 

Climbed the steps this AM to add a few strokes to my painting and work on the revision of Frankenstein that the production has inspired me to do. I considered how happy I am snuggled up here in my little alcove of creativity. 

Bears dragged debris into the back yard last night. Cleaning that up, and tearing out frozen cosmos and sunflowers must be on the to-do list today, or at least this week.

Melody has put a for sale sign in front of her house. 

Retrieved my huge old easel from storage I thought it wouldn’t fit under the ceiling, but it does. 

 

October 22, 2022

SS writes of The Frankenstein Rubrics:

I won’t damn you with the faint praise. You are always, at the very least, a mighty poet. I won’t claim to understand this one any better than you do, but it was surprisingly well acted for the most part (I was quite taken with the fellow who played The Creature), tolerably well directed, and of course head and shoulders more intelligent and thought-provoking than most of what I’ve seen on the stage written in my lifetime. Given that it’s a form of epic theater, the glories of the language and the philosophical considerations held my attention with even fewer circus tricks than epic mostly demands. Though there is, of course, a throughline, it certainly isn’t driven by plot. It’s more—forgive the repetition—a poetic construct than a dramatic one, per se, and I’d far rather have that, and be made to think, than to get sucked into an entertaining triviality.

May you have the closing night you deserve.

Dunkleosteus

 

October 21, 2022

“Improvements” on Merrimon Avenue are causing the predictable traffic catastrophes. A parking lot at certain parts of the day. Someone in a cubicle somewhere wanted to make his mark. 

Electric guy– trim, silver fox, sexy– fixed my plug, so all appliances can return to their assigned places. 

Set up my new studio. Will I paint? We’ll see. Feel the Angel of Patience beating his wings above my head. 

Finished the revision of Knight of the Flowers. 

SS reveals that K and her partner will be leaving the Magnetic at the end of the year. Asking myself why what I feel is betrayal. 

Then, email from K saying the building is being sold, and the present order disintegrates after January 1. Upheaval, probably disintegration, in either case. 

Afternoon, leaning into evening. I did begin again to paint, on an old (quite large) canvas never finished. The mood is different, slower, more careful, sketches before paint (which I never did before). Dunkleosteus is the first creature committed to paint. 

Freeze

 

October 20, 2022

Brilliant autumn day. 

Last night’s freeze killed all the annuals, plus shriveling the hydrangeas and the beautiful tree at the end of my drive that I don’t know the name of. 

Considerable blood on my pillow case. Can’t find where it came from. Either a bobcat sneaks in at night, or I claw myself in sleep.

Many of the dreams I remember have to do with painting, and with me as a painter. So, today, staring at the wall of my study, I realized how I carve a painting cubicle out. Went to Cheap Joe’s and bought supplies. Curiously, I didn’t set thing up right away. It didn’t feel like the “right” day to re-commence what I’ve missed for two years. 

 

October 18, 2022

Planted daffodil bulbs the day before the cold set in. The water in the birdbath was frozen, though none of the plants seem to have been stricken. Maybe only the hardy ones were left. Turkeys warbling at each other– must be “that” time of year. Vestry session with S, who put her finger on the big sore remaining in the parish and immediately set about healing it. Working hard on a revision of Knight of the Flowers. I think at this point a laborious and elaborate back-story may have to come out. 

 

October 16, 2022

Went a second time to The Frankenstein Rubrics, and was glad I did. Maybe it was the anxiety of first night, but the second time was better, funnier, sweeter, more relaxed– entertaining, which is a quality I don’t usually look for in my work. Still, nothing that Mary said could be heard. All that was lost. It seems such an easy thing to have fixed. The Creature’s innocence and sincerity grow. His relationship with Victor charmed the audience. Z was there. Nobody else I knew. I await the chorus of “Oh! It’s not still playing? I wish I could have seen it!” The structure of the play is irreparable, but there are lovely, thoughtful, and funny moments throughout. A pageant as much as a play. An entertainment. 

An actress I sort of knew encountered me in the parking lot. Her back was spasming, so I held her hand and supported her up to the theater door. A black station wagon stopped and the driver called to– Cathy, I think it was. The driver was quite boldly panhandling from the drivers seat of her car. Cathy gave her money. 

Went to all three services to declaim my Stewardship speech, staggering with exhaustion by the time it was over. Meant to go to the matinee this afternoon, but when I woke from my nap it was 4:20. 

 

October 15, 2022

Turkeys lounging most of the afternoon in the back garden. 

My father and I never talked about anything important, philosophy or art or belief. I have no idea what he believed about anything. Mother and I could talk about– what shall I say?– domestic virtue, how one should behave toward others. I don’t know what she believed either. They were both Republicans, but on what principles? For my mother it was likely an unexpected familial hatred of Roosevelt, but there must have been more to it than that. I think you would call her a Miraculous Christian, one who saw miracles in daily events. Now that I think of it, she was a pagan with the names changed. What music did they prefer? What books? Which paintings? Plato or Aristotle? It cannot be rewoven now even from the threads of remembered conversation. What would they have thought of my work? I recall father attending a reading at Hiram. His remark to me afterward was “That’s poetry?” I think he expected “Invictus.” It’s a point of view. I wish I knew where it led. 

Invisible Husbands

 

October 14, 2022

Nine rejections in two days.

News from UNCA that our Chancellor Cable is moving on to higher things. Her successor will be the first Chancellor under whom I have not served. 

Took copies of The Ones with Difficult Names and left them in the dressing room as gifts for my cast. Not one comment. 

Finished the revision of Invisible Husbands,

 

October 13, 2022

Great day yesterday writing beside the river. Two plays and a fantasy in process. I feel like a writer again. The FR review was fine, considering that local reviewers never have much to say about a playscript, but only, understandably, about actors and production. Progress on Poulenc at choir rehearsal. 

Had coffee at Summit to avoid the cleaning lady and make good on previous labors. Got a whole scene written. Some people think it’s all right to talk on the phone the whole time as though the café were their private office. Later, my sister phoned and said that we’ll no longer give gifts to one another at Christmas, but kids and grandchildren will be doing an exchange among themselves. I agreed to this reasonable proposition, but when we disconnected, I found myself weeping copiously, helplessly. The concept “Christmas is over” hit my emotions before it hit my mind, and I wept before I’d answered the question, “What the hell is the matter with you?” Nor did it stop for a while. Words are powerful, and “Christmas is over” can make you sad a long time if you let it. I also noticed that you can be quite free with your emotions at a place like The Summit and nobody will notice you, nobody will look at you. The end of it all is that no matter what I agreed to, I can buy presents for anybody I damn well please. I am Weird Uncle. All places are alike to me. I’m not used to my emotions having such an independent life from my consideration. Maybe it’s age. 

Shopped at Reems Creek still tearing up a little. Wanted an exotic conifer; did not buy it. 

Review

 October 12, 2022

The local review of The Frankenstein Rubrics:

*

I’ve been looking forward to The Magnetic Theatre’s production of David Hope’s The Frankenstein Rubrics all year, and it delivered!

First off, the seating arrangement for this show is vastly different than the usual setup in the black box theater. Instead of the typical arrangement of seats facing the stage, half the rows are turned to face the runway that splits the two sides of the audience. Another 10 seats are actually on the stage, so be prepared for a little audience participation.

The decor and props on loan from Girl and Goblin, Magnetic’s tattoo studio/oddities shop/neighbor, lend an eerie air to the theater without being overly campy. It’s the perfect spooky touch to a seasonal play. During seating, clips from various film versions of Frankenstein are projected on the walls. Trust me when I say, if the overall story and history of Frankenstein are your jam as much as they are mine, this is going to be at the top of your to-see list this month.

The play opens with Percy Shelley (Evan Eckstrom) and Mary not-quite-yet Shelley (Hannah Williams) discussing how they’ll recognize each other over time, giving a hint as to the cyclical nature of the rest of the play. Suddenly, the Creature (Daniel Henry) approaches the very yonic — yes, I had to look up the opposite of phallic — part of the machine that later gives him life, bringing to mind the end of the book when the Creature leaves Victor Frankenstein aboard the ship in the North Pole. 

The story moves on to 1816’s “Year Without a Summer,” where Lord Byron (Daniel Moore), Claire Clairmont (Morgan Miller), Percy, and Mary have their now iconic contest to see who can write the scariest ghost story. Fellow writer John Polidori (Strother Stingley) acts as the judge of the contest. Mary reveals that she wrote Percy into the story — not as the monster, but the “creator of monsters,” and how she fears him ever reading it. This small part is quite touching, as we see Mary alone on the stage. It highlights, I imagine, how alone she felt surrounded by “great poets.” 

The play skips ahead in time again, with the original four as upper level literary students, and the “reincarnated” Polidori as a scholar on the subject of Frankenstein. He brings up the question as to whether or not Mary actually wrote the book, or if it was a more collaborative effort. This latter scene is a bit jarring, as it does provide some context to Mary’s attitude, but it also seems to come out of nowhere.

The play moves around in time once more, settling on Victor (Jon Stockdale) giving his machine the final touches to bring his Creature to life. This time, he’s convinced he’s got it right, that it won’t end in calamity. He’s been down this road too many times, after all. All of these scenes take place in the same lab — designed by Tyler and Jess Johnson — which lends itself well to the overarching theme of pondering when a creator no longer has control of their creation.

The performances are absolutely stellar with each actor bringing nice touches to their roles. Eckstrom gives Percy his (expected) air of arrogance while also being tender when interacting with Mary. Williams plays Mary as confident and stubborn, with an edge of vulnerability — because what 18-year-old wouldn’t be a little scared of making something so enduring?

Moore’s Byron is bombastic to cover how insecure he is, while Miller’s Clairmont is so full of hope and desire to be seen as someone important. Elsewhere, Stockdale’s Victor is (expectedly) neurotic but incredibly endearing at the same time,and Henry’s Creature is simultaneously verbose and childlike, exploring the world through touch and learning from books through osmosis. Director Doug Savitt guides the audience through this fascinating story cycle, while the costuming choices from Kyrstin and Will Ezzell help provide a cohesive understanding of the roles these archetypes play.

If you’re looking for something to round out your spooky season, or if you’re a Frankenstein nerd like me, or if you just really love high-quality, immersive, atmospheric theater, this show is going to make your October.

The Frankenstein Rubrics runs through Sunday, Oct. 22, at The Magnetic Theatre. For details and tickets, visit themagnetictheare.org.

Whitley Albury

*

OK, then, good enough, even if she got my name wrong. She called me neither a genius nor a bombastic idiot, and this time I am content with the middle road. 

 

October 11, 2022

Gorgeous autumn. Sat by the river and began a new fantasy. 

Farewell

October 10, 2022

Drove to Waynesville last night for retirement festivities for Steve Lloyd. It was gala, lavish, extended, over-the-top, and no one ever deserved such a send-off more. What a remarkable man! He built HART in the middle of what one would expect to be a cultural desert, and though the deed wasn’t quite single-handed, he was present and indispensable at every point. He managed to direct play after play without ever being curt or caustic or sarcastic, which alone should win him a place in the annals. He was a force of nature without being a monster of Ego. He is a relaxed, generous, and staunch friend. Innumerable young people found their way into art–or, better still, into life-- under his influence. In an entire county he was the most recognizable symbol of civilization. I would guess two hundred people attended, flying in from Los Angeles and Iowa and who knows where else. I managed to sojourn from distant Asheville. The very loud Joe Sam Queen was Master of Ceremonies, and stars of his past shows (mostly musicals) reprised bits of their roles. The scenes were pretty much awful, which didn’t detract from the sincerity of the homage. Adam did the O what a rogue and peasant slave from Hamlet, and was decidedly the gem of the evening. There is no better actor in America. I do not know why his path has been so winding. They renamed the stage after Steve, and the town gave him his own day. Steve walked across the lawn with his arms outstretched to greet me, and many friends from old times caught me briefly again to their bosoms. The ghost I left behind me at HART, I gathered from the comments, was of an occasional appearance that made an out-of-proportion impression. Two people said my role in Proof was the best that had been on that stage, and some said it had been Hamlet’s father. “We were always so happy when we saw you on stage.” I assumed I’d not be remembered in particular at all, so the drive was a success for me as well as for spirit of remembrance. 

Odd thing: as I walked out the door to go to Waynesville, a play popped into my head, entire and detailed, like a balloon needing only to be filled. This happens with my best stage work, and hasn’t happened in a long time. Spent today drawing out the play. 

The Basement Guy came out to check on the dehumidifier, and when he left, the hum of that machine had grown until it was ubiquitous and intolerable. I wet downstairs and began moving things around, as he must have done. The first thing I touched and moved ever so slightly caused the hum to return to the way it was. 

Opening Night

 

October 8, 2022

Perfect autumn day. 

Did a show in Lord auditorium to advertise the production. Remembered when I was in that auditorium at least once a month for one thing and another. 

L and J arrived yesterday afternoon. We ate a luxurious dinner at Vivian’s and attended the opening .  I’m in the odd situation of having no idea what I thought of it. Set and tech were excellent. The staging was innovative and attention-securing. Everyone was physically appealing. The Creature and Byron were excellent. What did I think of my own play? I think the audience liked it. They laughed at the right places. No one left at intermission. Beyond that, I honestly have no idea. The play was an experiment I abandoned even before it was–in its first incarnations–finished. I went another way. It was like seeing an old lover and wondering “What was I thinking?” Parts of it were quite beautiful. Some of that beauty was gratuitous. I myself had to strive to get all the pearls onto a single string. Am I harsher critic of my own work than a typical audience member, or a kinder one? I don’t know. I’d rather be secretly mortified and have the audience love it than the other way around. I loathed that they serve popcorn at intermission, so the first ten minutes of ACT II is obliterated by people gouging away in their popcorn bags. G from thirty years ago was in the audience, and latched on to me. L said he was clearly trying to get me into bed. We tried that. It wasn’t bad. It was a long time ago. I have never left the theater with more uncertain thoughts about my own work. As ever, I’m grateful to those who work so hard to make it happen. I combed the internet for comments, but nothing yet. People congratulated me, but so they would have done had we escaped with our lives from a burning theater.

The richness of our dinner kept me up part of the night. 

We rose and walked Asheville in the cutting and perfect light. We had crepes in a family creperie. I showed them the downtown, which was truly festive and joyful. Tents of an art show on Pack Square. People dressed as characters from Alice in Wonderland, playing a game I forget the details of. Too many tourists, as people say, bit they were all happy, and maybe that was not too many at all. 

Napped with Maud in my arms. Rose and dressed to go to S’s retirement party. Looked at the invitation one last time before going out the door, and it is tomorrow. Removed my finery and checked emails. The light in the attic window is the color of bronze. 

 

October 6, 2022

Strange illumination this morning between waking and sleeping: almost nothing in my life has had anything to do with what I wanted. In the dream I think it was a person I wanted, but it became more generalized toward waking. My characteristic gesture has been to turn away from the desired and denied thing and, after a day in bed, taking up something, someone else with equal vigor and anticipation. Ten thousand campaigns and maybe four victories, none of them decisive. It was less grievous before I put it into words. It does explain why I have six unpublished novels and forty secret plays–try to overcome with sheer abundance. Don’t like this? Maybe you’ll like THAT. People are easier in that there are more graduations than just “yes” and “no.” You can make a life with casual relationships. They too take up the time. 

 

October 5, 2022

Blue October sky. 

Yom Kippur

Charlie rapturous about the Bach concert. Glad my tickets ended so well. 

Discovered the letter JB wrote me explaining why they were no longer considering my Lincoln play for London, but were standing behind another project– which turned out to be Webber’s Love Never Dies, all in all the most useless theatrical ever put upon a stage. They could have done every play I’ve ever written, in London, for a 10th of what that monstrosity gobbled up.  But. . . there it is. 

 

October 4, 2022

Planted purple ranunculus. 

Got invited to join the ASC “ensemble.” They do the more interesting music. I can’t remember the last time I actually had to audition for anything. In my ambitious youth this would have been a wreath on my monument. The thing about Symphony Chorus is that they’re not actually very good. Maybe the ensemble is. Moon over downtown as I scurried home from rehearsal.

 October 3, 2022

Vivid, penetrating dream about adopting a son. The longing I felt for him, and the sudden confidence I had that I could do it, were not dream emotions, but hard, immediate, hurtful. I wondered why I received such a confirmation long after I could really have attempted such a thing. 

Signed over my cobalt pick-up to Leland. When I went out that evening I realized it was the first time since February, 2014, that no vehicle sat in my driveway. 

Went to the Grail movie house where they were showing the 1931 Frankenstein. Katie and I were to speak to the audience about my, related, play, and I read a little of it. Realized I had never seen the movie (though most of its sequels) so I stayed and watched. Good film. Like its partner, The Wolf Man, compact and speedy. Fritz the Henchman the most unexpected character. 

Had canned wine. Will never have it again. 

 October 2, 2022

Cloudy, cool. I planted scarlet ranunculus and cleared out giant sunflowers from around the poor roses, give them a few days of light, anyway, before the chill. Repaired poems and sent off a few manuscripts. 

Run-through

 

October 1, 2022

Cold. Wet cold. I’ll spend the next six months pulling sweatshirts around myself and trying to finesse the furnace. 

The salmon bagels I used to look forward to weekends at Geraldine’s have become mean and skimpy. No need to keep that space on the menu open.

Ian and his rains pass east of us. Several Florida towns apparently obliterated. That it misses Mar-a-lago and the governor’s mansion is proof of the lordship of Satan. 

Was meant to hear the Bach Akademia last night, but first L bowed out because of the death of her daughter-in-law’s grandfather (she keeps track of those things better than I) and then because Doug, my director, invites me to a Frankenstein run-through. Sitting waiting for it to begin, I recall that I don’t “love the theater” as theater people claim to do. It’s messy and grubby and time-wasting. I like to act and to write, and wish that both of those occupations were purer of the mess than they are. But the cast of my play like each other, and played a kind of volleyball together before the rehearsal started. I have never been more apprehensive about a production than I was about this one. It was never of a piece. I couldn’t myself say what it was “about.” The surprise is that, however ambiguous, it’s gripping from the first scene on, and I’m neither a blind nor an over-generous critic of my own work. I think it will fascinate. Intrigue. Impress. Inform. Compared to the rest of this year’s fare at that venue, it is an agate lifted from the mud. I should just leave the evaluation with the word “relief.”

Ian

September 29, 2022

But for a few stabs of activity, slept all day. 

A panicky actor wants to axe a song. Actually, he wanted to recite it. I told him to axe it altogether. 

Wandered around Foundry Road. Met a man unloading lumber. We talked a long time in the coming-from-everywhere-at-once sunlight. 

Tyger Tyger gallery, the work so overpriced you think it must be a joke. Nice lady opening the gallery said she just built herself a studio in her yard. 

Met MT in the Bruegher’s parking lot. She told me of triumphs in Europe and Kansas City, and the 1000 foot studio the city of Zurich gives her for free. She adds “You weren’t always I great fan of my painting,” as though the tales of eminence were all to make up for that. 

Almost unbelievably annoying rehearsal. 

The stillness of our sky makes me think of the hurricane now blasting Florida to pieces. 

 

September 28, 2022

But for a few stabs of activity, slept all day. 

 

September 27, 2022

Finished a new play, The Photograph, which is hilarious, as I don’t know what to do with the last three dozen plays. Plowing through more Italian at AS rehearsal. 

Pick-up

 

September 26, 2022

Storm came from the north last night like a dark fist. The lights went out. The attic is very, very dark. 

Interesting day. Call from Charlie, my absentee neighbor, reminding me that Ingle’s has bought up the surrounding properties and, allegedly, intends to build a multi-level, multi-use building on the site of Grace Plaza. Will this make me an island in a sea of asphalt? Will I be eminent-domain-ed out of existence? I could be dead before this moves forward; it could move forward tomorrow. 

I foresaw that this borrowing of my little blue Ford truck would be the end of our life together, and I was right. L had it for 12 days, returned it with the driver’s side rear-view mirror gone and a serious oil leak. L said the oil leak was of long standing, but there are no stains on my driveway, and never, in twelve years, had I added oil. I bought my friend on September 1, 2010.  Here is how I recorded it: I got myself a birthday present. While I was having my inspection done at Jim Barkley Toyota, I eyed a cobalt blue Ford Ranger pick-up on the lot. It stayed in mind. This morning I gathered myself and went down and bought it. I suppose this is my mid-life crisis vehicle, and if so I am lucky, for among mid-life crisis purchases it is both small and useful. I feel very sad. Eras open and close, and you hope you have some control over the timing and circumstance, but you never do. 

 

September 25, 2022

Back to the theater last night, the room half empty on the show’s last night. The play was skillfully wrought, dedicated, honest, exactly as interesting as the Hallmark Channel TV program that its audience will watch next time instead of dragging itself to the theater. How to make the point to playwrights that honesty, unalloyed with other virtues, isn’t enough? That if, after years of workshopping and revision you finally capture that precious moment from your past, you have probably not created something anyone will really want to see. Your friends and family will sit there clapping wildly at the wrong places, and the cover of the play will never be opened again. Getting it right isn’t even the beginning. There must be discovery by the playwright or all will be inert. I used to tell my students that if you wrote the play/poem/story you meant to write, you have failed. I met the flashing-eyed, voluptuous playwright, and was grateful she didn’t ask anything substantive. “What’s wrong with my play?” Nothing. Nothing at all. Just that if this is the first play an individual has seen, he will never return to the theater again. 

I was reading over FR, chastizing myself that it isn’t better, and it goes on in two weeks. In my mind it’s flawed and pretentious. Amid the company it keeps, it’s a masterpiece. Somewhere in there is comfort.

Downtown

 

September 24, 2022

Planted white iris. 

Two days of adventure. Journeyed downtown last night into the thick of Ashevilliana, roving beer floats blocking the streets, throngs, drunks, buskers, street people, drummers in the park surrounded by tourists and dancing children. I looked for a place to park-- a search which was, of course, futile-- so I resorted to the garage on Biltmore, where I did an amazing thing. The sign said “Flat Rate $20,” so when I drove in I saw the apparatus where I thought you put your credit card to pay the $20. Slid my card in, nothing happened, so I jammed it harder, to make contact. Turns out it was the apparatus you press to get your parking ticket out, and I’d jammed it up trying to force a credit card in. Spent the next few minutes trying to dig my card out, a line of cars forming down Biltmore, wondering what the hold-up was. By some miracle I actually got it out and went on my way, and the cars behind continued their interrupted procession. A very Senior thing to do. Crossed town. Early, of course, I watched the drummers at the drum circle and had a cocktail at Jack of the Wood. I’d gone to see JC’s SoR at the Bebe. The Bebe is terrible, but it can’t be helped. John is a flawless performer, and the material was solid, engaging, impassioned, enthralling, the performance (a one-man show) totally without a glitch. The tiny black-box half empty in the midst of a teeming metropolis reminded me of all the best nights of theater I’ve had in Dublin, London, wherever, when some miraculous thing unfolded before me somehow hidden from the scrutiny of the many. Of course, a performer doesn’t want to be hidden from the scrutiny of the many, but for the onlooker it may be a secret and selfish delight. 

This AM it was Pride. AVLGMC sang–well, it was reported– and I wandered about in a daze of exhaustion which cleared enough for me to realize what I was doing most of the time. Had the worst lamb gyro in the history of the world. Staggered home and slept, rose, and now prepare to return to the theater. Each activity requires recovery time. 

 

September 23, 2022

Early yet, the sun slanted. Cold last night. I wish I had shut more windows. Dread of rehearsal last night. I was ill and short of breath, but when I got there I had fun, and the various minor pains went away. Let that be a lesson to me. Will be the only bass at Pride (eight baritones, for instance), which means I will scream myself hoarse. I live in a world where there seems to be little use for Pride, though I do understand that ten miles beyond city limits it’s still the 50's. 

Reading. I do not understand why people thought Lowell was a major poet, or even a good one. Because he was a beautiful youth? Because he suffered? Because he knew the right people? Article in The New Yorker about Elizabeth Hardwick, concerning whom I feel the same bemusement. Some people are foreordained for a measure of notoriety, a condition not affected by actual achievement. She was part of the generation that made students think that good writing is the inevitable outcome of hard work (it isn’t) which was necessary to establish Creative Writing as a paid academic discipline. I thank them for that, as it made my life easier. She was one of those whose eminence was based on eminence, so far as I can see. Maybe just the elevation of the name “Elizabeth Hardwick,” which must perforce belong to an eminent person. Had I taught in a graduate university, my influence might have been different and greater, but also my teaching style might have been altered in ways I wouldn’t necessarily find pleasing. I was seldom challenged by my students, so my growth had to come from inside. That, in the end, was well. Did I challenge them? Is there any way of knowing? Even while it strove to be a real university, UNCA’s emphasis was on the encouragement of local kids to be the best they could be, with little thought to whether that was “good enough” in the great world. I agreed with that, and still do. I was a teacher more than a critic. I was an encourager, one who found something to praise in each work and hoped that lack of praise elsewhere would get the point across. I think that was my nature, and would have remained unchanged wherever I was. My approach to academic classes would have been different had my students been better prepared, but surely I gained something from starting at the beginning each time. The bitterness at the end of my career probably colors all remembrance. I was probably a greater success than I think I was, or, if a failure, one with less influence than might be feared.

Had I been a handsome young Brahmin named Geronimo Millstein, I’d be living in a New York penthouse now, with NYRB articles being written about me. 

Daylilies

 September 22, 2022

Sept in a cocoon of inflammation last night, enfolded by pain. I knew all I had to do was get up and take a pill to alleviate it, but I lingered a long time before I did. There was some odd comfort in the pain. 

Squalls of cold rain backed by sharp wind, though the first half of the day was summer, and in that late warmth I got daylily and iris into the ground, cleared out space for the next batch before my strength gave way. Rounding the side of the house I came upon the same big, dark hawk that had called in the branches before. He was on the ground, and I think he’d caught something, possibly a snake. Too big and dark and shambling to be Sweetboi– I think he’s a this year’s red-tail finding safety in my garden. After the planting I sat downcast on a chair on the front porch, thinking such thoughts as one has, and I heard the gentlest rustling. I looked up, and the hen turkey stood three feet away, staring at me. She’s not used to the big ape being so still. She hopped back onto the ground and led her five big chicks on a foraging journey through the garden. I followed them around back to watch them nibble through the great pavilions of sunflower and goldenrod. How many devastations and disappointments is a sight like that intended to make up for? Some, truly: probably not as many as God thinks. 

AVLGMC rehearsal tonight. I truly doubt I have the stamina to make it through all that. 

 

September 21, 2022

Woke in the night to a high tingling in the air, like tiny glass chimes. I thought they might be the wind chimes, but they were too high and far too fast. Maybe autumn welcoming itself into my garden.

Pulled some demon out of my dreams and only now, mid-afternoon, do I fight may way out of the murk. Got my flu shot and finished off the shingles series. Gardened until it was too hot, then sat in the garden and strove with God. Does His secrecy need to be so great? We would fight him less if we understood him more? If he didn’t feel like communicating, he shouldn’t have created us longing for communication.  I feel like a man who labored to draw harvest from his own fields, and then is driven away that others might profit from his achievement. In the dead of night he sneaks back to see if there is any remnant to glean, furtive, lest even that be snatched away. If God has excuses for his cruelty, he does not do well to conceal them. I sat in the garden and emptied my heart, then waited for a reply. A dark hawk cried from the maple branch.

Glorious first of autumn unfolds despite this. We die of grief in fields of gold. Me, I am never happy to see summer go.

Evening: shoulder throbs from the shots, as the ladt at the pharmacy said it would. Last time with Z. Neither of us could think of what to say. I found distant comfort realizing going without his ministrations would save me $3000 a year. Sorry to have thought of that.

 

September 20, 2022

One of the great days. I rose and sent off manuscripts, then gardened, and the gardening was easily in the 65th percentile of all gardening. The west side of the porch is utterly transformed. Pulled out a giant hibiscus tuber for Russell. The last day of summer was supremely beautiful. SC rehearsal in the evening, and I made it through without an energy crash.

Persimmons

 September 19, 2022

The perfection of yesterday was such that I determined to do some gardening, and at that was moderately successful. Got ½ a plot dug for $200 worth of new daylilies. Continued the long war against the grapevines and honeysuckle, which had colonized the tops of my hollies without my noticing. Discovered a bumper crop of persimmons. Ate one warmed by the sun, and it was indescribably delicious, the best of all fruits, even with the astringent wave that comes after the last taste. 

Z is giving up his practice, at least temporarily. I’ve been with him, what? Twelve years? Fifteen years? It’s like getting fired. 

SN sends me delphinium seeds. 

Watched bits of the Queen’s funeral. The uninterrupted yakkety-yak of the news commentators was at odds with the dignity of the proceedings. 

I’m told to leave the persimmons be until they fall to the ground. 

 

September 16, 2022

The loss-of-taste part of Covid kicks in. Tried to eat a tomato sandwich, and all I got was cold and doughy. Stomach muscles sore with coughing. 

COVID

 

September 15, 2022

Feel great this AM, but pretty sure that I had Covid, and had it longer than I was aware. Did I have it at the beach? Did that explain the listlessness? Understanding now that the weird cough and the (even for me) inexplicable exhaustion were symptoms, I certainly had it Tuesday night at Symphony Chorus, which meant that I, in my ignorance, was blowing Covid in everybody’s face. Because the weather was perfect, I forced myself to do some garden work, and was down in the lower thicket pulling vines. When I finished, the prospect of climbing that little hill back to the house was daunting. I thought I would never make it back to the house. Once I did, I had to sit on the stoop a while to recover before I went in. Maud was right to require me only to cuddle with her the rest of the afternoon. 

Morning was energetic, but now, late afternoon, fever and exhaustion re-assert themselves. This disease will take some learning. Meeting with S, in which strategies for Stewardship were discussed. I was working too hard. She told me explicitly to pause while she catches up. 

 

September 14, 2022

The furnace company sent their man to inspect my furnace. It was fine, as it ought to be, having been installed in March. D is a giant and bashed his head on my lintels more than once, when in fact a small tragedy of my house is that it was built for people bigger than I, and I can’t reach many of the top shelves. He plans to get out of the furnace business and get into “digital marketing,” but admitted he needed to do so in a particular way, as his impatience with authority could sabotage him if he goes the regular route. 

Coffee with K at Summit, wherein we discussed art & theater & the personalities therein related. I will be speaking at a showing of Frankenstein at a local arts cinema, which was a hundred yards from where we sat without my knowing it. I am wondrous ignorant of most of what goes on in my own town. 

Boring Symphony Chorus rehearsal. I must have thought it was better than spending Tuesday nights in front of the TV, and I still do. 

Major weeding and vine-pulling, after which I was pathologically exhausted. I wasn’t sure I could make it up the little hill from the pond. Maud came in where I lay on my bed and hollered at me until I went to our place on the sofa and cuddled her as we do when watching TV. It’s the most amazing thing. She has a yell for an empty bowl and a yell for “come cuddle NOW” and another for just– I don’t know– making sure I remember her. We lay there for a couple of hours while I felt exhausted, coughing this odd and unlike-me kind of cough. Rose to bow out of choir rehearsal to discover that rehearsal had been cancelled because five choristers have tested positive for Covid. I’m wondering if I would be the 6th, if I were to go to get tested. It wold explain the exhaustion and the cough. 

 

September 12, 2022

Getting control of my food intake after the yearly beach-binge has improved my sleep, increased my energy. Up today before the sun. Revisions and submissions. Well done.

 

September 11, 2022

A bitter anniversary. 

The new Dean’s first day, and the imps of perversity seemed arrayed against her: technical problems, sections of the rubric apparently under-rehearsed, wrong hymn played at the wrong time. No matter. Striking out first time at bat is nothing so long as the game is won. 

“Bethany’s Boyfriend” accepted by Dillydoun Review in Texas.

 

September 10, 2022

Home from the sea: a long, rainy trip, with me being no use to DJ because I couldn’t keep awake. I hadn’t related to the actual water in a long time, and I’m back in love. Will miss that, but dealing now with almost unspeakable exhaustion. Maud hollered at me when I walked through the door, but a snuggle and a nap with her on my belly smoothed things out. R fixed the closet door. DJ's van annihilated the cosmos on the way out of the drive. All is as I left it. Stupid comments on Face Book about the death of the Queen. Why do people mock those whose lives have been incalculably more useful than their own? 

 

September 9, 2022

Rain began in the darkness and continued all night, as it does now, wind from a direction that allows me to type on the balcony with the full roar and gray fury of the sea before me. One surfer enters my field of vision, his red shirt the only note not in the pearls and grays. The sea is not much rougher than before, but the inclemencies above it make it seem more threatening. 

Saw dolphins at the edge of the pier.

Began feeding gulls and grackles from the balcony. I’m sure that’s a transgression. 

Amy gave me The Buried Giant by Ishiguro to read. I’m pretty sure I’ll never finish it. The man has a Nobel Prize and the one virtue I can find in this book is a remarkable fidelity to an atmosphere of decrepitude and Medieval squalor. 

Queen Elizabeth

 

September 8, 2022

Repeated the best of yesterday: played in the Atlantic, then eased into the condo pool, inhabited this time by children, whose parents told them to be respectful and not to splash me. Two kids about 11 years old were flirting furiously with each other, without, perhaps, knowing what they were doing. They were witty, and able to land some pretty sharp barbs into one another. The girl’s name was Emma. 

In the afternoon we learned that Queen Elizabeth had died. Many retrospectives on TV which I, at least, watched. She reigned on the far side of the water all my conscious life. A world never again as it was.

Folly Beach Continued

 September 7, 2022

J and M and we festive on the balcony until all hours. He kept pouring shots and we kept drinking them. We discussed the relative merits of scholarship and immediate response. Odd to be having that discussion with adults. Went to bed too drunk, slept poorly. Swam in the sea again this morning, and when I was done I soaked in the pool, an experience so relaxing I almost fell asleep in the water. A sandpiper patrols the space before the condo. Sanderlings dash into the wavelets. Both are more substantial birds than I remember them.  Dinner at 101 Pier, and then I broke off from the group and did a minor pub crawl downtown. Returned to Planet Follywood. The copy of Necklaces I left there last year is gone, so maybe it found a home. Drank with the owner, who is also a city councilman, and a guy who is head janitor at a local college and showed me photos of a chunk of clogged pipe.  He began an anecdote of an all-black high school in Charleston, but it never got where it was going. A guy celebrating retirement from the Army bought a round of drinks. Hawk devouring a lizard near the pier. 

Into the Sea

September 6, 2022

Another bright morning. Threats of inclemency have not materialized. Yesterday was gorgeous in that I ran about and saw the town as I would have done in days before this debility hit. I was tired, but never too tired, never out of breath. My first year I couldn’t make it to the pier without major problems. Reminder that for me the joy of traveling is to walk out of the hotel door into the street and just start discovering, meeting, engaging. Usually there are castles and museums, but a little beach town will do too. Was given free tea by Theresa in the Drop Inn. Opened the 101 Bar on the Pier with their first drink. In the afternoon the group went about town– to eat and drink– and again I went at some pace without losing the breath. The tide rises, the tide falls. Happy people on the pier listening to horrible music. Flashlights on the shore at night, I think looking for baby turtles to help them in their destinies. How they survive the crush of human bodies in the day, though, I don’t know. Warning about married life, and how it is well I missed it: every surface covered by some cast-off item, a book, a water bottle, so there must be major excavation even to sit down. 

Arrival of Jay and Martina, who have been fishing for redfish somewhere nearby.

Walked into the sea this morning, the first time I actually swam in the Atlantic since– I don’t recall. Strong and refreshing, but mostly strong, so that at times I scurried back toward shore, unsure that my strength would be enough. You don’t have to enter the sea. You stand and it engulfs you. Where I stood I could see waves that I knew to be far taller than I, until they were broken by the sand. The surfers and I rejoiced in the same waves. 

 

September 5, 2022

Sleep slightly better, but often interrupted. 

Big dinner at Loggerheads last night, good looking beach people in various stages of inebriation. 

Time at the beach is spent watching the others scroll endlessly through their phones. No one is present in the moment for very long. I creep into the cool to write, or nap. 

Folly Beach

September 4, 2022

Folly Beach, SC. Arrival pretty much as it has been for three years, me honoring traditions set long before me. Tried unsuccessfully to fight off sleep in the car. DJ exceptionally voluble. By night on the balcony we watched Antares and Jupiter ride a sky ruled by the half moon. There are two beds in my bedroom. I tried the first, and no sooner had I lain down that visions popped into my head of a derelict pirate ship washed up on shore. I tried to explore, and as I did, ghosts of men who’d died in the brig emerged to tell me their stories. The bed was haunted, so I moved across the room, to one suitably inert. Pulled the Venetian blinds down trying to close them. Stuff pillows in the window so my named self can’t be seen from the back terrace. Sat in the blinding morning light on our balcony and wrote poems. Going to dare myself to at least a poem a day. 

Wandered into the sea amid the late morning holiday crowd. Happy feeling. Saw a small fish, almost transparent, at the edge of the waves. There are waves of the sea perpendicular to those coming onshore, which are warm and cold. Babies held by parents, dangling their feet in the water

 September 2, 2022

All that I wrote yesterday reminds me of Gilgamesh. I wander the streets of Uruk crying “Enkidu!” and the people say “Who?” 

New singers for AVLGMC. Excellent new bass from Orange County.

 

September 1, 2022

Happy Birthday to me. The day given by the gods is brilliant, but I’ve found ways to darken thought. The central theme of five decades of my life is work as hard at writing as can possibly done, improve, probe deeper into the mysteries, so far as it is given me to probe, perfect and refine until achievement and abilities find the same resting place. This I have done. I stand before whatever power there is and say “This I have done.” But alongside that came the supposition that a certain amount of visible success-renown, perhaps recognition, eventual ease of publication-- would attend upon those efforts. This did not happen, and my response was to redouble effort, as an athlete does, to break through, to surge ahead finally by the power of determination. The difference between an athlete’s efforts and mine is that in a race who has crossed the line first cannot be mistaken, or, if it can, both are counted winners. I read or watch onstage the productions of my contemporaries and there are few cases in which mine is not better, but having crossed that line furlongs ahead seems to make no difference. It is somehow not preferred. The moment has been invisible, everyone turned away looking at something else. I am the best poet in America, and ten people know my name. Beating against that wall has been futile so long my thoughts turned another way, a way they do not go naturally. What if I am simply “meant” to be the one who never gets the life he believes he has earned? What if my own efforts are completely irrelevant in this regard? A foreordination, this, that, and then no more? Otherwise is not going to happen, as tulips will not bloom from the chestnut tree. You were meant to have these things, and you have them; these things were not meant for you, and you will never have them. Longing beyond your destiny is not the fault of the gods. It should be a kind of relief if it had nothing to do with me. It is not, though, for it requires a change of world view into something dim and rigid. My conception of God was one who changed with you, who saw what you had earned and rendered the prize, who saw what you needed and stood at the door with it in his hand, who moved the goal when you exceeded it, who lured you on from the front, fleet, inspired, dynamic. My experience of him at all times has been the one who says “no” regardless of the rightness of “yes,” who lets you get to the corners of the box but does not allow you out however you gnaw and protest. Even I went to the end to let the raccoon family out of my attic. In a way, I am to blame. I did not register what stood before my perceptions. I operated on faith. I turned my eyes the other way to spare him. I have not spoken the truth, because it lessened him into One not fit for the songs of praise. So, I asked myself, what do I do about it? If the whole perception is right, thinking you can do something about it is the root of sorrow. What if I refuse to accept it? My recent perceptions about physical pain– crying out that you can’t stand it does not mean you will not have to stand it– enlightens me here. A little mouse voice says from the corner, “What else would you have been doing? Imagine futile striving to be the gift of God, for had you not been striving, your life would have been empty indeed.” I cannot declare this to be untrue. Poetry filled my life, and while I was creating it I was always happy. So if I look back and resent a long, long deception, it’s difficult to know what to do other than resent, go dull to it, move on. It is a kind of relief, as the angels of entropy surely intend it to be. 

This goes some way to explaining my career as a painter, too. I wasn’t bad. So much that is idiosyncratic is prized that I thought my idiosyncracies might find a champion. But the word was, “No, that’s not for you.” Was I happy painting? Yes I was. Should that have been enough? It wasn’t. I paid the consequence. I cannot say these perceptions fill me with sadness. They don’t. On a day when I had more fight in me, perhaps they would. May that day never again come. 

 

August 30, 2022

Maud vomited and I didn’t see it, so I slipped and careered into the guest bedroom closet and onto the floor. The doors of the closet are bashed off their runners. It was the sort of fall that defines old age, but when I managed to get up I realized nothing was broken, nothing even hurt that much, except the closet. I’m a good faller, typically landing completely flat. Off to a gathering in honor of my birthday at Rye Knot. One must plan events carefully to avoid the expanding clutch of rehearsals. Good time, maybe the best of those kinds of times. Late in the evening something screamed in the back garden. Either it was the most irate raccoon that ever was in the world, or some night bird I couldn’t identify. Turning on the lights showed me night and vacancy, so a mystery remains. Someone sent me gorgeous green coasters. With whom was I discussing coasters? 

Revision notes: the elimination of my apparently relentless helping verbs, changing “was going” to “went”; “began seeing” to “saw.” Finding alternatives to “was” and “were”: “He was afraid that” to “he feared.” 

Session of vine-pulling to get the clematis, however lovely, off the trees.

The Nurseryman's Wedding

 

August 29, 2022

Before noon I finished the huge revision of The Nurseryman’s Wedding. Four pages shorter than the last version, though, I think, hugely changed. 

 

August 28, 2022

Gout a constant discord. Pointless pain an infuriation. 

Sunday gliding toward a bruise purple and yellow twilight. Picnic to celebrate Perrin’s brief, restful tenure at All Souls. The garden between my bathroom window and the fence is a kind of tiny paradise, twittering with birds concealed behind the foam-colored flowers. Moving forward in my secret worlds, probably standing stock till in the world anybody can see. 

 

August 27, 2022

Watched my first Rugby match on TV, Australia vs New Zealand. What beasts! It was wonderful.

Inspiration moving forward on NW

 

August 26, 2022

General foot pain ebbing, but succeeded in the right toe by gout. Fascinating. Tim long ago had a theory that where you got ill was life trying to send you a message. What do legs and feet tell me? I should have glued myself to a rock like an oyster? 

Cat toys in a little line in the hall, where the cleaning lady put them after they emerged from somewhere. Circe is gone and Maud is no longer in the mood. Very sad. 

AVLGMC rehearsal last night. The same threadbare and dreadful Pride songs, but for some reason I had fun. 

 

August 25, 2022

Fasciitis carried into another day. Today must be better than yesterday, but I don’t feel it. At least I got painlessly through the night. Pain that is not a warning is useless. 

Twenty half-naked boys came trotting up Lakeshore, I assume from a University PE class. Said a prayer of thanks. 

Niece-in-law Mariama leaves the hospital today, though her child, grand-nephew Ezra, needs to stay in ICU a little longer. Jonathan posted a video of the poor tadpole breathing with his whole body, trying to suck in life. 

Hobbled about making a stew of country sausage, eggplant, celery, banana peppers, onion, garlic, tomatoes. I’m a still a Boy Scout. 

 

August 24, 2022

Unexpected agony last night. I woke with my feet in such pain I literally could not endure it, but, as in certain times past, I recognized the fact that whether I could endure it or not there was no way out. I think the bad shoe debacle of Sunday was behind it, though the result was much worse than the event. Something had given me diarrhea as well, so the agony of walking in any degree was compounded by the need for several trips to the bathroom. Just wonderful. I remembered TG’s observation about fasciitus, and how wearing shoes made it better. I struggled into my left shoe and, yes, the pain went from about 11 to about 7, and after many pills I fell back to sleep. Still staggering around this morning, fully shod, but the improvement is palpable. Perhaps because of the resultant bad mood, or after having written checks to credit card companies, I canceled monthly automatic contributions to charities, at least the ones I remembered. If I add it up right, that’s $718 a year saved. 

Immensity

 

August 23, 2022

Night of amazing dreams.

My anniversary. 56 years ago tonight I wrote my first poem.

Tea with CB at Dobra on Haywood Road. I remembered him as a delightful student, and he is if anything more delightful now, merry and engaged and fully himself. He asked me about my faith, a question which I almost never answer directly, but I answered him. The subject came up because a friend had brought a telescope and showed him Jupiter and his moons, and the Immensity fell upon him. “I laughed for, like, five minutes, and then I cried for twenty. I couldn’t even explain what was wrong.” Jupiter and his moons are the cure for all fear and pettiness. My raccoon carrying off her babies is the cure for all fear and pettiness. 

First rehearsal (this time around) with Asheville Symphony Chorus: “ A Night at the Opera.” Catching up with many people I could just as well have not caught up with. I like the music.  K’s ease as a director makes you overlook how adept he is. 

Behind the Bamboo

 

August 22, 2022

Byrd on Pandora. Looked at my portfolio first thing. The market had been open fifteen minutes and I’d lost $4000. Closed the window. 

Nights free of critter anxiety. Mother raccoon and her babies have found domicile behind the bamboo. I still listen for them, though, and note that night around here is wondrous silent, despite being in the middle of a town. 

Excellent revisions of NW, revisions I hadn’t anticipated making. 

 

August 21, 2022

Celebration of twenty years for K at All Souls, with a new, commissioned (and quite nice) motet for the occasion. Text by Blake. I sang it wrong the two times we did it at service. Legs and feet in almost unbelievable pain. Considered that it must be the shoes. 

 

August 20, 2022

Planted echinacea, now congratulate myself that the storm comes to bring them water. 

Forbearance

 

August 18, 2022

The ending of yesterday was other than I anticipated. After I shooed mama away from the roof, I sat down in my study to write– and heard chittering in the attic. The raccoon babies were alive, and at the very spot inside where mama had been digging on the outside. I called C’s, but was frustrated with them, their having clearly not looked for the babies when they said they had. I crawled through the attic myself and rescued them– in a colander– and set them outside. What little bags of determination they were! Mama arrived in less than five minutes, hauled them off into the thicket. It’s the next morning, and some of the wonderment of the moment has worn off, but I was happy, unable to remember ever being allowed a mitzvah so pure. The message of the whole extended event was “wait for it,” and I knew it was, but my rebellious spirit is not a good waiter. Maybe I’ll be better now. When the C guy arrived he took photos of baby #2 and said, “You’re a wonderful soul, Mr Hopes.” I wondered if I were going to get the check back I wrote them for capturing the raccoons– which I ended up doing myself. 

Mistrust of professionals is part of the lesson learned here.Tree Man gave an estimate that included stump grinding. We decided not to bother grinding the stumps, but there was no reduction in the bill. I opted against pettiness. If I’d known that was just an open door I might have done differently. Ace Handyman delayed service for no good reason until the raccoons that had been scattered returned to the attic. David and Manuel pulled out all the drainage pipes for this and that in the basement, and simply cemented over them. C’s was happy to sell me $3300 worth of basement sealant, but never looked to see if they were sealing something inside. Becky from Animal Control did her best, but had too many things to do at the same time. C's, though they captured mama, misled me about the babies so they wouldn’t have to be bothered any more. I end up paying to fix mistakes or doing things myself. Too bad I’m not really good at anything, though I can deal with wild creatures in a a fairly efficient way. Repairs are not over yet. C's said it would spray disinfectant in the attic. I’m not even going to ask if that will ever happen. 

Note from Red Hen containing my certificate for the Eric Hoffer Award (Falls of the Wyona), which had been sent to them in May, 2020, and somehow got lost in, as they said, the Covid confusion. This joins my royalty check from 2020 which has also somehow never appeared. I keep telling people that forbearance is my defining quality.