July 29, 2022
A quite large rattlesnake lies smashed (by cars, I think) at the end of my drive.
David and Manuel have cemented up the basement windows so a human would never know they were there. God knows what equipment a bear brings to bear. My apprehension of all this amounted to a kind of sickness. There remains only one repair, and that on the roof, which seems remote.
July 28, 2022
The six-trunked black cherry that stood beside my bedroom window is gone, with a minimum of collateral damage. It shaded mostly the roof, and I can feel the difference here in my loft-office: It’s 4 PM and the room is almost uninhabitable, even with the fan on. More blue sky to the west.
Wrote a poem having coffee on the kitchen counter, and another at riverside, hiding while Patrick and his helper cut the tree. Maud complained bitterly about the noise and upheaval.
O dear God, I have to get to Ireland.
July 27, 2022
Exactly as I anticipated, the omnipotent raccoon dug back in the corner window and compromised the seal put in for $3000. David and Manuel come Friday, but I expect even that will not be the end of it. I cut out the peach tree– the second thing I planted when I moved here–that had flopped over against the window, probably giving the marauder a sense of security. It caused me grief until I actually did it, but now it’s well. Glad I’m not in Ukraine– exterior things interrupt my inner world. If a raccoon is bad, bombardment would be--
Watched 50 versions of “Reaction to Arya Stark Killing the Night King” in order to have the thrill of victory, however fictional and remote.
Morning at the Y. I wanted to do aerobics, but the pile of apparatus put me off.
Received video files from the Capital Q Festival in Madison. Before the Holy Temple was not recorded. Of course.
July 26, 2022
Woke speaking the words “I won’t be learning any lessons from you.” I think I was talking to God.
Seconds past that waking, a piece fell into place in the puzzle of politics. In trying to explain to myself the insanity of the Right, I realized that every one of their enemies is imaginary: The Deep State, Antifa, the Worldwide Zionist Conspiracy, Crisis Actors, Democrat Cannibal Pederasts, Woke Amazons, Election Fraud, on down the line. The fact that they are imaginary and no evidence can be found for them contributes, somehow, to the conviction of their power: the Left works so hard, and apparently succeeds, but for a few enlightened and prophetic souls, in disguising and concealing its machinations. I wish this didn’t sound so much like Faith. Anyway, it’s the one area where education will not avail, for education relies on evidence and exploration, and the fantasies of the Right must avoid those things at all costs, must insist that evidence is a kind of indoctrination. Education itself succumbs somewhat to the power of the fantasy; at the end of my career I realized that some truths could not be told and, in fact, when they cropped up, needed to be suppressed. This involved people who were wrong, but who, it was felt, had earned the right to go at least temporarily uncorrected. I don’t know the full explanation, or even if there was one other than avoiding friction. Nobody likes to be told they’re making their monsters up. The crude boy in me wants to say that stupid and wrong people got tired of being stupid and wrong and declared stupidity and error a kind of transcendent wisdom., a Dispensation unto the Ignorant. I need to find a better way to say that.
Weights at the Y.
Brian S is dead. He was two months younger than I.
July 25, 2022
Thought I would write a poem in celebration of my mother’s birthday, but that led down a road of sadness that has not yet turned.
God-like Joey suggests that I need a block mason to cure my basement window problems. I never knew such a thing existed. His group would have to charge $3000. That’s not going to happen. Man, he was beautiful, though.
Curious inability to work. Too much upheaval.
July 24, 2022
Sunday morning, an exact copy of the last ten mornings, down to the fact that a tremendous storm passed through in the night and, curiously, left no sign behind. TV programming went off so that hideous machine voice could tell us to find shelter. Much lightning, in fact, but as though the rim of a bowl were fire and we, the center of it, sat serene.
(Later) I was wrong about leaving no sign behind: a corner of my eastern porch collapsed, the cement rotted away beneath it, eroded finally by the torrent. Put that on the list
J and L’s wedding rehearsal Friday. J dominated both events, and I’m glad for the time with him. My perception of him as a minor league Machievelli was not erased, but expanded by the perception that he is funny and humane and considerate and full of experiences he is delighted to relate– boyish, in fact, in ways that please. He is also very much enamored with being a bishop. No reason why you shouldn’t enjoy your job. He is off tomorrow to Lambeth, and expressed fury at the African bishops for bringing up once again issues of human sexuality when there are real and fatal crises on all sides. It’s like laboriously preventing ten year old rape victims from getting abortions when the seas rise and the forests burn and the bullets fall. What are some people thinking? Our bishop points out that some of the African bishops will appear with all three wives. They will say, “It is our culture.” Yes, exactly.
Homeless people take shelter on the Parish Hall porch. L went out and gathered them and invited them to have dinner with us after the rehearsal.
The wedding came off well, if I am a judge of such things. I read my poem to some acclamation, and DJ sang Herbert’s “The Call” in a way I thought deeply lovely. Tears stood in my eyes. JB read the famous passage from Corinthians, and lines leapt out at me: “As for prophecies, they shall pass; as for tongues, they shall be silent.” The passing of prophecies and the silencing of tongues seemed blessing beyond imagining, a blue serene light at the end of turbulence. I had overeaten so grotesquely at the rehearsal dinner that I was still ill and did not attend the reception. On the 4th of July I began a fast to which, though I’ve yet to see results, I have been admirably and honestly faithful. On a few days I ate nothing at all. On many it was a tomato sandwich or eight ounces of guacamole. A roast chicken lasted four days, and then I was afraid it was too old and threw the rest to the crows. The wonders that need to be reported– despite seeing no difference in the mirror-- include that I’ve almost never been actually hungry, and my energy zoomed as early on the first day. Not only did I no longer have to take my dead-to-the-world midday nap, I couldn’t if I wanted to, buzzing with energy The normal-sized intake at the rehearsal dinner, therefore, annihilated me. Did not quite throw up, but wanted to.
D arrived this morning from seeing a friend’s vineyard somewhere in Virginia. We had brunch and talked. He is very much the businessman. Turns out that his company is my second-most-profitable stock holding. Before he drove off, he wanted to know if I needed anything heavy to be lifted.
July 21, 2022
I always thought my gift was sturdy, but today I was thrown off by the postponement of the window guy– car trouble– and Tarzan the Tree man because of unfinished projects. Cannot write well in a state of anticipation, especially as it colors down into frustration. I didn’t realize these things would count as frustrations, but they do. I have, in retrospect, spent a great deal of my energies seeking the calm–the obscurity–which I evidently need in order to create.
My long puzzling about my Syracuse roommate F ended today when I learned he died of a brain aneurysm fourteen years ago. The only story he ever published was “The Dancing Ducks,” which I saw in manuscript and couldn’t help him with, because I didn’t understand it. His bitch of a girlfriend ended what might have been a heroic friendship.
July 20, 2022
Coming off a considerable storm, lightning starting off to the west and eventually zapping right over my roof.
The jolly boys from the Exterminators came to day, led by a very tall lad with a shovel beard, looking like a Central Casting Amishman. He said “Are you the one with the green thumb?” We looked at the black and the yellow callas– which he had never seen– before they began. Now, after 98 years, my basement windows are sealed from the inside (though not from the outside, that being the next story) and a dehumidifier humming away in the dark, and all the cellar floors and walls covered in plastic. A little creepy, I thought, but apparently the way things are done. The tall man assured me the dehumidifier would take care of the mildew issue, and probably my incessant coughing at well. I’m ready for anything. Tomorrow comes an estimate from the first of those who will cement in the windows and vents from the outside, so implacable raccoons can’t and easily distracted bears won’t be digging their way in again. The workers reported deep claw marks on the foundation. Given time, the basement would have been a den.
So, in the space of a year, a new furnace, a new toilet, a new hot water heater, fixed roof, eliminated varmint climbing tree, remodeled and sealed basement.
Royalty statement from Akron U Press, which I won’t be able to bring myself to look at. . . though the resale of the book approaches $1000, for reasons I don’t understand.
Praying to Themis that Bannon goes to jail.
July 19, 2022
Email this morning:
Larry Habegger <larry@travelerstales.com>
David, we just realized that you are not a young man of 18-25 years, so your story is not eligible for the category of Young Traveler. We’ll need to remove it from the list of winners. Sorry for our oversight. It’s an excellent story, in any case.
Young Traveler
The best story from a young person (aged 18-25 at the time of writing) taking time off to travel between high school and college, or during breaks
Best wishes,
Larry
Morning spent with unexpected laundry and clean-up, Maud having turned the guest bedroom into her litter box. Did enable me to fetch the several dropcloths out of my truck, which have been sitting there since my last art show, which must have been 2019. Maud goes through phases, and maybe this is one, but at her age you wonder which eccentricity is the end. She realized what she had done and disappeared when I entered the room. Her own litterbox is newely cleaned. If she’s sending me a message, I don’t know what it is.
Garden lovely but overrun with weeds. I’m using the heat as my excuse.
Went on line to watch the Porky Pig cartoon where he hits his thumb with a hammer and, finally, says, “Son of a bitch.” Works every time.
Reading in Gunn’s letters about his trip to Broadway– in 1956– when he saw essentially the same things– The Music Man, West Side Story, etc that are playing today. Why do playwrights even bother?
July 18, 2022
Return at dawn to the Y for what I believe was close to my former weight set. Healthy boys in their tank tops: one tends to forget the side benefits. Drank iced coffee at Starbucks on Charlotte Street, witnessing five or six accidents that almost were. Determined to get casually out and about, realizing that I had not left the house yesterday and was feeling bored and isolated simply for lack of movement.
Tormented by the idea that the anti-vermin basement guy was a scam. Phoned first thing this AM: all is well. They come Wednesday.
July 17, 2022
Won a gold medal in the 16th annual Solas award for travel writing, in the “young traveler” category for “Homage to Lady Gregory” I do remember vaguely sending it in.
Watching Barry, a TV show where an acting teacher gives harsh, sometimes cruel criticism to move his students forward; reading Jeremy Denk’s memoir of piano teachers who were harsh and cruel in order to move him forward. I never prospered under such a regime, so when it came time for me to teach, I took the gentle road, suggesting something that might be better rather than mocking or damning the words before me. In retrospect I’ve no idea whether that was the right choice. Some students complained that I wasn’t firm enough– a cajoling move toward excellence didn’t seem as loving as a blow of the critical fist. I understand that. Strengthening students by making them crawl out of the ruin I made of their self-esteem was not my way, and perhaps, therefore, I goaded no one to greatness. Did I lure anyone to greatness? Seduce them so? Only time knows. I did, however, have to fight the tendency to sarcasm when I was directing plays. A rehearsal is more exhausting than a classroom.
Even so, student evaluations– worse than useless–who but Administrators could come up with such a foolish idea?– complained when I “singled somebody out,” which usually meant correcting a wrong answer or a bad sentence. When I left education, it was not education anymore, but the method of delivering diplomas into student hands with the least possible friction or controversy.
Incidental Poem:
The tiny white spider
has crossed
what must be for it a continent
to find the one
white lichen
to rest upon unseen.
July 16, 2022
Dream of the long corridor through the wilderness (which has been in my dreams before) which this time was a sort of diffuse graduate school, and my thesis advisor was a literal witch. When she found out I’d made a snide comment or cut some corner, she assigned me to fill fat little notebooks with essays on philosophy, written all along the sides and in the middle, like the Talmud.
Coffee reading still Gunn’s letters. How amazing to have people read and discuss your work with you, you all the while assuming their sincere interest. He assures his correspondents that he is working on this and that, as though it were a matter of actual concern. I remember waiting to see when somebody expressed concern that I’d stopped painting. Still waiting. I could write or not write and I think nobody I normally see would mention it. Perhaps distant correspondents would, though one does not have those anymore. I’ve led a hidden life without actually hiding anything.
As soon as I finish the paragraph above, Laura Budofsky writes from Vermont: Dear D. Thank you for the book. I just finished reading it through a couple of times. I found it wonderful: thrilling, abundant, generous. I say generous because I felt almost every line was full to the brim with beautiful, new, musical language and that the language itself was allowed as much space as it needed. I say thrilling because there were so many turns, so many surprises that sometimes I could barely hold on, but I did. Thrilling also because emotions, like humor, for instance, kept going right to the edge and falling off into their opposites, like grief, for instance. I say abundant because the whole world seemed to be in it, the most mundane and everyday and the biblical and mythic. I particularly liked “Benediction Before Sleep,” “The Alphabet Song,” “I Think of My Lover Lying Down,” and “Swan.” Of course, I’ve spent the years since Syracuse eking a living, raising children, teaching Yoga, writing alone at the kitchen table, etc. very far from anything academic… this info just so you can consider the source.
July 15, 2022
William Byrd on Pandora.
Tumultuous day just passed. Vermin inspector arrived in the afternoon. I wondered why the guys who have to crawl around in tight attics and crawl spaces are always, in my experience, huge. Good looking man, though, who must have been stunning in youth. When I warned that the bb gun on the stairs was not a real gun and just there in case of a confrontation with a ‘coon, I received a lengthy oration on how guns are necessary, yea virtuous, nowadays. One nods and appears to be in agreement. He crawled his crawl in the attic and discovered that–besides the gash in the roof–there seemed to be no damage– insulation unsullied, floors not urinated upon, rafters not gnawed. The bade me regard the smell of my attic, which is sweet and woody. He said it would be sharp and foul if ‘coons had actually lived there. Nobody there then, anyhow. Our inspection also told me that no animal could survive the heat of that space in summer daylight. Went down to the basement, where the actual inroads had happened, claw marks in mud, displaced plastic, the bear-torn windows open (periodically, when I have not been watchful) to the air. He gave me an estimate for fixing everything, sealing the windows and vents and installing a de-humidifier. As I had no idea what to do about any of it, I agreed. Tightness lifted off my chest. He says I have no signs of termites or mold or anything but the tree-bandit, the least of scourges. His company was founded by a preacher whose church couldn’t afford termite treatment, and so he learned how to do it himself.
Letters from Chancellor Cable and Governor Cooper thanking me for The Ones with Difficult Names.
July 14, 2022
Bastille Day.
Email: Jessica Johnson 9:01 AM (4 hours ago)
Hi David, Your play, Bach Bach Bach bach, has been selected to be included in The Magnetic Theatre's One Act Play Festival in November! We received almost 1,000 submissions, and have narrowed those down to present a series of about 20 plays over two weekends.
Woke to a droll face at my window, a raccoon proving the thesis that climbing the cherry tree is how his buddies keep getting onto my roof (and into my attic). Took him one minute to remove the ground cloth Will had stuffed in to close the hole. Exterminator arrives later this afternoon. Facebook full of testimonials about the diseases I’ll get from having ‘coons in the attic.
Sent Jack’s wedding poem.
Sent proposed Stewardship campaign.
Progress on The Seas of Beta Pictoris.
July 13, 2022
The only cecropia moth I’ve ever seen lay battered and almost dissolved on the eastern porch after last night’s tropical thunderstorm.
Dream last night that I wandered over a bridge and into a vast tunnel, that I’d seen before but never entered. It was like a Mall or an airport concourse, in that there were attractions and stores here and there. On the far side of the bridge lay Nebraska, and though I was eager to see it (it was a plain of golden wheat through the windows) I couldn’t seem to find an exit.
Zach handsomely morose. His era of liberation may have hit a snag. His son (who is 6 today) super-glued one eye shut.
July 12, 2022
--and the rest of the day was annihilated by the onslaught of phlebitis, after a hiatus of 19 months. Brutal, but brief, because of the drugs. The gods of doxycycline be praised. There was an afternoon and night of being passed out on the bed, but this time the episode introduced itself with the most titanic nausea and flux. I diagnosed dysentery, though I couldn’t figure how that had happened. What I lost at both orifices could not be accounted for by what I’d taken in, even if several days were taken into consideration. The spectacular sickness a body can produce! I tried to tell my stomach, “All right, I’m leaning over the toilet, ready to let fly. You can take that hellish sensation away now.”
Fine now, not even that exhausted.
Evening cocktails in Reynolds Village with the gang. I’m ever amazed by the depth and abundance of gossip that can arise from a relatively small place like All Souls. There must have been that much more of it at UNCA, but people do not generally or spontaneously repeat gossip to me. Mostly, that is well, but it also makes me wonder at my own obliviousness.
July 11, 2022
Start the day with a trip to MAHEC to have blood drawn. It takes two minutes.
Will the Ace carpenter comes by to assess the roof. The damage is worse and the estimate less than I expected. He had COVID recently. I asked him if he got it despite having the shots and he said he hadn’t got the shots, which he regretted because if he HAD, then he could have blamed the shots for giving him COVID.
Melody across the street recovering from COVID, so she insists on shouting to me from a distance. She shows me the weeds in her front terrace that she can’t reach, and I climb up and pull them. The nursery person told her that her black walnut is poisoning her garden (which is probably true) and for $6000 they’ll come out and spray something to neutralize the toxins. I tell her for 1000 she can remove the tree.
Serious weeding and dead-heading.
July 10, 2022
Sarah presented, at least in name, at the Cathedral.
R back for the summer. He sits behind me in choir. I hear his voice, clear, strident, determined, not loud but somehow piercing, and I observe that he is able to invade my worship experience by simply being who he is. Not his fault, a failure of concentration on my part. He straightened the back of my robe and I nearly screamed. Why is he instant distraction for me? He is a man without nuance. That can’t be the whole reason.
M filling in for his parents in the AS kitchen fountained forth details of the O reign previously unknown to me. O wanted half the pews to be removed from the sanctuary on account of COVID. This, of course, could not be done. He wondered why the choir was wearing robes, and could we stop? There was probably more, but I didn’t want to appear too eager. He was told by–somebody–to remember he was an interim and no changes were likely to be made.
July 9, 2022
Tending to let these days fly away from me.
My garden is the most beautiful summer garden it’s ever been, and its prime is still weeks off.
Went to the Magnetic last night to see S’s Starbright. It was smart, mature, fulfilled and fulfilling, among the best things I ever hope to see there. Its word-of-mouth was so strong I feared disappointment, but it was better. It bore traces of its lengthy development process: the next step in the development process would be to take those exact gestures out. Though THIS play redeems it at the end, I have trouble with the mentally troubled and yet somehow heroic protagonist, the person whose quirks and tics and delusion ruin everybody’s life and yet, somehow, all energy continues to be poured into them. S got past this at the very last minute. Actors are lazy these days, and don’t bother to speak above conversational tone. That almost works in a black box, but even there, not quite. Included a child actor of miraculous gifts. Facebook claims it was a sold-out house, which it certainly was not, unless a lot of people who bought tickets didn’t bother to attend.
I don’t remember one conversation with either of my parents that was about anything significant. I certainly didn’t get the culture-wide sex lecture. I never was told why we were Republican, or why we went to church, or why we went to the church we did. Why were those particular art reproductions hanging on our walls? Why was that station on dad’s radio? I would not have know we were Irish without my grandmother. There was never a conversation about art, or music, or politics, or racial relations, or public events. Do I know what my parents believed about anything? Father asserted we were “Conservative,” and that must have meant something specific to him, but I never knew what. I was never asked how I felt about anything. If I were crying they would ask “what’s the matter?” but I don’t recall what happened then. Mother told stories about her youth and her family, and related anecdotes that illustrated the need for kindness or helpfulness. Once when I was afraid she told me to pray, and that actually did change my life. Did she pray? If so, for what? Did she keep African violets because she loved them, or because she felt she ought to? Did they think taciturnity on these issues was virtuous, or did all remain unsaid by long-enduring accident? It was pretty much all transactional. I was not the solution to this problem, What I thought or felt had to be dragged out of me. I don’t think they knew what interested me until they went to see me in a play or read a poem I wrote. In some ways this was well: I never felt pressure from them to be some particular thing rather than another. Tolerance or Indifference? Or fear too deep to be expressd?
I wondered why this came up as I sat at the desk writing, and then realized it was inspired by the character in S’s play, thinking about the catastrophe she wrought by oversharing. That, at least, would be laid at the feel of none of us.
July 7, 2022
Father cardinal was showing off his family on the fence this afternoon. They seem all to be daughters. He was very proud. Witnessed again the blue jays spreading themselves out against the ground, in one case so firmly that I thought it had been killed and crushed. Went to Lowe’s and stood before the mouse poison display, contemplating the riddance of the little brown mouse in the kitchen. In the end I walked away. What could he be eating but Maud’s food?-- and if she doesn’t notice, we could all live and let live.
In Akron, Jaylan Walker, who was running for his life away from the cops, was hit by 60 bullets, and when dead, handcuffed.
July 4, 2022
Peter Brook is dead.
I realize that I like the sound of random fireworks exploding here and there, even like finding spent rockets in my yard, though I wonder if they were fired at me or wandered there on their own.
I left volunteer raspberries grow for the last three years in the corner between fence and house. A few days ago I noted that my catbirds had their fortress there, issuing out from the protection of thorn to gladden the world. That made it all worthwhile. If I get out some morning before the birds, I may even get a raspberry.
July 3, 2022
Maud howled a howl I’d never heard from her before. When I went to her, she was looking out the guest bedroom window, but whatever she’d seen had disappeared.
Made pasta salad for the Independence Day picnic at All Souls, though I haven’t decided yet at this hour whether I will actually attend.
Relief of rain in the last few days. The downpour reveals where the gutter guy messed up, or where some other issue has arisen.
Eyes sore from– something.
Later: My pasta salad turned out to be just this side of disgusting. Sometimes things just don’t work. All day people remarked on how everyone who knew the identity of the new Dean was sworn to secrecy. I’m not usually the possessor of forbidden knowledge. It feels goofy, like a passage in a book. But it is gratifying to know that so many care so genuinely.
We got to sing “My Country ‘Tis of Thee.”
Maud was howling at a cat and her five kittens who, when I saw them, were cavorting under the truck. If they are here Tuesday, when the shelter opens, I’ll try to scoop them up.
June 30, 2022
Late morning, fan at my back. Weeded and watered the front before the full blaze came upon us. Driving a Dean candidate around to see the sights. One doesn’t understand until times like this how little there is to see in Asheville if you want neither to shop nor to hike. Blocked by a fallen tree on the Parkway, so there was some excitement.
June 27, 2022
Daniel flew to NYC for the weekend, and is trapped there by cancellations and other ineptitudes of Southwest Airlines. Confirms my impulse not to travel for a while yet. J had attended the AVLGMC concert, and I asked him how we sounded. He said generally good, except for the balance problem that is-- always and perpetually– caused by W trying to oversing everybody.
June 26, 2022
Watched Emma Thompson’s Effie Gray on Netflix last night. Like Bright Star, a way to enlarge the role of a woman who may have been significant–or may have been incidental–in a great man’s life. Ruskin gets, I think, a raw deal. Regarding women, I always believed he was more squeamish than cruel. Thompson was clearly handing opportunities to her star, with long, lingering close-ups that allowed–rare in contemporary cinema–for actual plays of emotion. The night before, I watched one with Michelle Pfeiffer, Jack Nicholson, and Christopher Plummer. It was a werewolf movie, so its solidity did not lie in the plot so much as in the sheer pleasure of watching really good actors work and interplay. Where everybody is piloting jets or throwing thunderbolts, you don’t get that so much. Nicholson could portray the edge of violence by raising an eyebrow. He could portray equanimity by failing to raise that eyebrow. Pfeiffer was a steel dagger in a silken scabbard.
Pulled Dreamflight at least temporarily out of mothballs after ten years. An extraordinary portion of the energy of the text was spent in excoriating the then much-hated David Godine.
June 25, 2022
Great, agitated din of crows in the morning. The anemone bed is pressed down where a bear struggled to get through the gate. I usually leave it open for just that reason, though Tony closed it when he was mowing.
Finished the revision of Songs Strong Against the Powers of the Air. The parts I removed were as removable as a marble from a bowl of Jello.
Before the Holy Temple is on stage this very moment in Wisconsin. I look at my publication history and try to explain the gap, then realize that for twenty years I did almost nothing but plays, which, for the moment at least, disappear into the trackless ether.
