May 13, 2022

Thin, unforthright rain. 

Woke in a panic, thinking D’s wedding might be this weekend rather than next.

The new book is now called Songs Strong Against the Powers of the Air. Structurally perfect, though if asked who its audience is, I wouldn’t know what to say. 

E responds politely as he can about my gift of FW, congratulating me on the construction of the character of the narrator. He was meant to see himself, and himself and I, in the book. If he did, he didn’t give it away. I have a gift for friendship that was never allowed to manifest over the long run. I have a gift of interpersonal intensity that was never welcome out of bed. Maybe I too much derived my ideas of friendship from heroic books. People turn away and say, “that’s not what I meant at all.” 

Annuals peeping through the soil. I based this year’s garden on the seeds sent to me by the Tennessee painter lady, and I don’t think they were viable. Nothing yet, anyway, which means vast empty patches inviting weeds. 

Why do I have so few publications, I wondered, finally realizing that the best part of two decades was spent writing plays, of which there is no material trace. 

Thoughts of the past, as though correction can be achieved now. At least two great dramas of my professional life were caused by female colleagues who severely misinterpreted texts, and, too arrogant to ask for clarification, launched lengthy campaigns of slander. C misinterpreted my first play and, out of ignorance coupled with supreme self-confidence, labeled it “sexist.” It was in fact about female empowerment in the persons of Ruth and Naomi. IG took my correction of an error she made in a lecture as a personal attack, because, being infallible, correction could be nothing but assault. Both went howling wounded to their underground support system. Five minutes of “what the hell did you mean by this?” could have obviated months of subterfuge and libelous indirection. Why do I think of this now? Does something impend that can be informed by it? Maybe academics can’t imagine that they’ve gotten something wrong. Maybe it’s an aspect of feminism that modifying one’s first impression–however askew–cannot be considered if doing so involves consultation with a male. IG did approach me at Bob Moog’s funeral and say that Bob had cherished one of my paintings. I took that as reconciliation. As far as I know, they are both sublimed into the air. 

The demographics if not the exact identities of the candidates to be our new Dean are revealed. Women predominate, and there are African Americans. I feel objections rise as a reflex, but thankfully I realize they ARE a reflex. How many will leave if we call a woman or a black? How many will leave if we do not? I pray that one rises above the crowd so definitively that no such controversy kicks in.