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 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.
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.
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 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.
August 17, 2022
Matters of the spirit fade into matters of the toe, a vivid revival of gout in mid-morning. Still exhausted from yesterday, which seems like several days rather than one. The pain is infinite distraction. You want to be still, but stillness is no better than movement.
5:50: Hated, dreaded gnawing on the roof, this time outside. They led me to believe they had found and removed the babies. They had not. Mother is chewing the roof again, trying to get them out. Damage is already done. Tragedy now deepened. Does she not know they are dead, or were with both lied to and they are still somehow alive? I cannot live this way.
August 16, 2022
Matt the John Brown-resembling animal whisperer looked in the attic and found not only my raccoon, but three newborn babies. He was not able to capture her then, but set a trap with sardines. I was home from Vestry and having a cocktail when I heard the commotion overhead that was her fighting against the trap. The big guy, the boss, came this morning to look for the babies, but didn’t find them. Matt will try again this afternoon. This story resists a happy ending at every turn. When we let mama go at the edge of the wood, she did not flee, but looked around, came close to us, poked at objects around her. She had the same expression on her face that she had when I saw her on the roof– “I’m doing everything right– why are you yelling at me?” Will she linger waiting for her babies? Are they already dead? Will we find them in the mess she left behind? I believe that, heavily pregnant, she climbed the cherry tree the last time it could be climbed. Because Ace Handymen had delayed, the roof was still open when she got there, and she re-entered. I sealed the house completely on Friday and, and her recognition of this resulted in the frantic scratching and clawing I heard all night for two nights. She gave birth early Monday, and soon after she was spotted, but in her panic she ruined her chances for easy survival. She did nothing wrong. She just did it in the wrong place. She was never violent or aggressive, but sort confiding and inquisitive, as though wondering what all the fuss was about. I feel terrible, without seeing how I could have played my hand differently. If they had sealed the roof when they contracted to do so, all would have been averted. Matt comes later to have a second try at finding the babies. I’m like one of those figures in a tragedy who abets and deepens the catastrophe without any intention of doing so.
5 PM: hard rain. I got the echinacea I bought out into the garden just in time.
An hour after mother raccoon stumbled off toward Merrimon, I stood in the grass where we released her, crying hard. For her babies there was no possible happy ending. The look on her face was bewilderment– what did I do wrong? The answer was, nothing. You did just as your bones told you to do, sweetheart, and here I stand with tears coursing down my face in solidarity with that innocence. All could have been well. Wellness was blocked at every turn. Little spirits everywhere, I am so sorry. I don’t know how to save you.
August 15, 2022
Worst of all possible nights. Brother ‘coon gnawed all night, as though into a microphone, adding the space right beneath my bedroom window. I turned the fan up to high to drown out the noise. What is more horrible than a wild animal in your house, digging and gnawing to get out? It’s worse that the tribulation of the last year, which was listening for them trying to get in. Becky’s baited trap sits unapproached. I put a bowl of water out for him last night, and it looks to be untouched as well. He has no food or water, hence his desperation, hence my fury that all he has to do is accept some cat food, lie still for a moment, and be transported into his natural world free. I’m trying to draw a life lesson from this. I tried to imagine the people in Ukraine with bombs dropping on their heads. That doesn’t bring the comfort you suppose it will. Becky seemed to think he’d hop right into the trap, as I’m sure he would were he not a demon beast sent from hell to torment me and resist all redress. I phoned the window-cementing people to come bash a hole back in, so the raccoon can escape tonight the way he was used to coming in. Desperate need calls for desperate strategies.
August 14, 2022
Maud sits under the dining room table and cries until I come and pet her. Sometimes she cries until I follow her to the guest bedroom, where she leaps onto the bed and wait for me to enfold her in an embrace. I’m glad she feels able to ask for what she wants.
10:15 AM: Becky from Animal Control came to take a look at my raccoon problem. If I feared it had been my imagination, the fact that all the insulation in the basement is pulled to pieces set that at rest. Becky poked around, but we realized the scamp could flee anywhere in the wilderness of torn insulation. She set a trap baited with cat food, and I’m to check every now and then for a captive. The vermin situation will never be at an end. Becky rescued horses and large animals from Katrina, from which Maud also had been delivered.
10:55: Tinkling outside the little door between attic and study, which I realize is the raccoon messing in the box of Christmas ornaments. Of course the trap is in the basement.
August 13, 2022
Productive day, the waters still flowing.
I keep hearing sounds of creatures breaking into the house. I rush to see, and, of, course, it’s nothing. Wrote out a clement and forgiving (though not forgetful) review for Ace Handyman Services.
*
On the phantom sounds front: sitting with Maud in my lap watching TV, I heard digging sounds that were this time precise and local, behind the TV where one of the big windows into the basement used to be. Got up to look, realized that in our efforts to seal the house against varmints we had trapped one inside. Ace gets the last laugh by delaying so long the raccoons re-established, at least one of them. Had no idea what to do. Called the exterminator, but it was 9:30 on a Saturday night. Called Animal Control, but it was 9:30 on a Saturday night.
August 12, 2022
Movie night at DJ’s, a pointless addition to the Dr. Strange oeuvre. Quality is inverse to the number of toys a director has to play with. So many diversions have to be slapped from a moviemaker’s hands before cinema is art again, or even very pleasing. In a similar vein, I was set to go to the Magnetic to see the Anam Cara collaboration, but they made the mistake of posting a preview. No. Not even five minutes of that. The error is more prevalent among women, I think, than men, that there is a special wisdom to the body when it comes to religious or artistic practice. The body assists by learning to stand aside. I saw bits of them before: the occasional striking tableau is not worth the long minutes of self-indulgent milling about. There is no theater without language, except insofar as movement suggests language. I’m setting dance in another category, of course. Have been attracted lately to videos of Charismatic church services. Most of them are unintentionally (some intentionally) funny. I think the dancing and flinging oneself about must be fun and releasing, but it has nothing to do with the Holy Spirit. It is social, without a vertical dimension. There is no ecstasy without discipline.
Will the Carpenter finally arrived and I was right in thinking that lifting the burden of the roof off my heart would have the effect of breaking a dam–all is flow again. I cannot explain nor justify the degree to which I shut down in the last eleven days, but it was real, and now it is over. Plus the fact that the final bill was half the estimate. Will deflected my wrath by being cute and attentive and very explanatory/apologetic. They–or at least he–were apparently as embarrassed as I was infuriated. The corollaries are a morning of heroic weeding and dead-heading, and before that an earlier morning of purposeful writing.
August 10, 2022
Vivid and vibrant dream at morning, in which I re-opened my studio, recommenced painting, gathered pieces for a show. It was so convincing that I was awake for several minutes before I realized I was in another world. Ought I to try to do this? It’s possible painting stood for something else– writing, after days now of inability due to depression. My first stroke on the canvas would have to be significantly different from the last stroke to make it worthwhile.
Bumps and bangs which I assume are creatures invading the attic from the gashed wall. Cannot actually be that. More probably distant thunder filtered through my anxiety. No, the patter of feet. Raccoons are definitely in the house. There is no end to it.
August 9, 2022
Stephanie from the builders calls in her cheery PR voice and says they’ve moved me up from Tuesday (next) to Friday (this) “To give you the best possible weather.” Her weather prognostication has not proven reliable. It’s like being falsely incarcerated and then told your sentence has been shortened and expected to celebrate. But, I did allow the little spike of joy that welled up, before being dimmed and compromised by all the things that experience knew could–and will–go wrong. I have not faced this crossing of my will nobly. I have blown it out of proportion. Disappointment and disaster were on the program from the start. Cruelty is hard to take in stride.
Watched last night the generally gleeful reportage of the FBI raid on Mar-a-lago. If the old fool wouldn’t counterpunch every time he would give his haters less to laugh at. I could hardly believe there’d be a victory of any sort in the protracted Trump nightmare. Haven’t heard the news today. Maybe he blew up in fury like an old fat toad, thus disappointing the several jail cells awaiting his arrival.
Magnetic Theater is safe till the end of the year.
August 8, 2022
What a welter of grim poems I’ve been writing in the last weeks! A turkey hen and her five chicks have put my front garden on their forage schedule. This afternoon I was standing at the edge of the drive and they practically had to walk across my feet to get in. They whistle and twitter to one another constantly. I try to induce them to the back, where they'll be safer longer, but their tiny minds are made up.
August 7, 2022
I respond to the perception that I will never have a life as a playwright by opening up an old play and digging back in. It’s giving me pleasure. . . or at least dulling anxiety. . . so what the hell?
Thunder overhead. I went to the door at first, thinking someone was knocking.
Discovery of long ago beloved sci-movies on the Internet: This Island Earth– quite good, actually. I remember pondering it as a kid. The Phantom Planet with Francis X Bushman. I wonder if Bushman imagined that's where he'd end up.
August 6, 2022
Hiroshima.
Low level of nausea throughout the day.
You can manage to be sub-conscious for protracted periods of time.
Watching a nature show on TV. A woman had rehabilitated a bobcat that had been injured somehow, and with a forest ranger was returning it in a carrying cage to the New Hampshire woods. It was making terrible noises, which the woman tried to interpret as healthy indignation at confinement. But when they opened the door, the cat hesitated. It came out crippled and spazzy, dragging itself along the ground trying to attack them. The ranger said “It she rabid? Shall I put her out of her misery?” The woman, backing away in apprehension, nodded “yes.” He shot the bobcat. It seemed, for a moment, the worst thing I had ever seen, all hopefulness and kindness turned to disease and malice. I wept for a long time. Maud the cat sat on my lap looking up at me. She’s used to this sort of thing by now.
August 5, 2022
Drinks with SS at Rye Knot. I come away from such evenings wondering at my own persistent naivete concerning the behavior and intention of those around me. The sociopaths in my set are largely unknown to me. Maybe it’s partially the difference between Knowing Brooklyn and Big Wide Howdy Akron– also, keeping in mind the deliberate blind eye I turn to things which I suspect may be an interruption– though, these days, I wonder “interruption of what?” Bright beginning of a bright day. Must remember to dump rainwater out of the wheelbarrow. Tony mowed yesterday. I wonder what he thought of the missing trees and opened pathways. Sick to my stomach over the roof. Sick to my stomach is new. Wishing I had a studio, with ideas for paintings. Not wishing THAT hard. . . . Found Windows open on the address for the Archbishop of Canterbury, causing me to remember I’d thought to send him a book of poems. Zero in checking account. One transfers money, whistling under the breath.
Email from the Magnetic revealing that, if colossal sums are not raised instantly, the theater must close. Way beyond my ability to help. Blame is thrown backwards on “previous administrations.” Among the ships sunk are The Frankenstein Rubrics and Bach Bach Bach Bach. What a lovely summer this turns out to be.
August 4, 2022
Writing sonnets. I can’t shake the depression brought on by gratuitousness of the last few days, but somehow that state of mind doesn’t affect creativity the way you’d think it would. I resent a little sitting down first thing and writing, before coffee, before recalling the state of things, but that’s what happens. My state of mind creates a cascade effect. I forgot today was cleaning day, so Iris sat at the door for 45 minutes while I was upstairs, obsessively watching videos, ignoring my phone.
Breonna Taylor’s murderers are finally charged.
August 3, 2022
The state of suspended consciousness I enter after an inflicted cruelty or defeat ruled most of yesterday. Coming out of it was distasteful, as though my perceptions had been altered in a dry and lifeless way. The voice I recognize as THAT voice spoke with unusual urgency toward night “Trust me, David.” My bitter response was “what choice do I have?” but the part that was not bitter won the hour by the slightest sliver.
August 2, 2022
Cooling of the stove top days. Call from the owner of Ace Handymen, re my enraged response to their cancellation. She points out that they were concerned for Will the Workman’s safety, being up on a ladder in the lightning and rain and all. I point out there was no lightning and no rain, and by the time it was clear there would be no rain, hours of daylight remained wherein he could essay the job. Ah! But by then he had accepted other tasks. . . . Realties in this world seem, oddly, to take back seat to anticipations or suppositions. The FACT that the weather was fine carried no weight against the supposition that it would not be. Reminds me of the cops who shoot people holding phones or water pistols in their hands, claiming to believe they were guns. I’m on the side that thinks that what is should have precedent over what was supposed, but we are somehow not in the majority. Can people not make mistakes? Of course they can, but there are consequences. Cops who shoot people with phones in their hands must go to jail, as repairmen who abandon jobs for bad reason must come the next day and make good on it. Neither, apparently, is going to happen. I confess the conversation with the owner made me feel better. I feel fully heard, if in no sense assuaged. I surprise myself by believing they should cancel somebody else in order to make up for canceling me, but that is what I do believe, may the saints instruct me. At the end of it all, there is a hole in my roof, and those who contracted a month ago to repair it have not done so.
Determined to win something, drove to Valvoline and had the Toyota inspected, this time without incident.
St, my Polidori, has a brain tumor and is afraid he can’t remember his lines. You smack your forehead and murmur, “What else?” They say the tumor is “benign,” and I wonder what that could possibly mean. We decide that most of Polidori’s extended lines are “literary,” and thus reasons can be found for reading them out of a book.
August 1, 2022
Gout, after a lull, migrates from second toe of the right foot to big toe of the left. How does it make these decisions?
Today was the day when my home repairs would finally be at an end. Text message late last evening that materials were assembled and Will would be here at 9:30. So, of course, at 8 AM Ace Handyman services phones and the dispatcher lady says, “It’s going to rain today, and Will thinks it would be better if–”
“Nope. Gotta happen now.”
“But if it rains it will do damage–”
“There’s a hole in the roof the size of me. Let’s not talk about damage–”
“But, if he has the tiles off when it starts to rain–”
“It’s not going to rain.”
“The weather report–”
“No–”
“A deluge by 10 AM–”
“No, no, no, no, now–”
“We really believe–”
“It’s not going to rain–”
Somehow, though right, I lose the battle, and we reschedule, against a fresh barrage of objections from me, for August 16. I plead every pleading, but of course, there’s nothing they can do. I scarcely need add that it is now 5:10 PM and there has not been a single raindrop fall upon my house. I aim the fan and take to my bed.
Just before taking to my bed in exhausted despair, I decide to salvage something by taking the Toyota to be inspected. Toad-boy at Valvoline says “we can’t do that today” and shows me where the computer says, “Not eligible at this time.” My renewal date is September, so I knew I was eligible and that Toad-boy typed something in wrong, but he was not having that. I phoned the NCDMV, miraculously got someone on the other end, who shared my consternation, saying “There’s nothing wrong on this end.” Realized that her Lowland Hillbilly was as hard for me to understand as the Hindi you get with most help centers. Return to Valvoline with the truck, which sails through. Toad-boy stares daggers at me. The inspection people apologize because one of their inspection gadgets has disappeared. Then I take to my bed. . . .
July 31, 2022
William Billings for the anthem this morning.
Big handsome kid in church, rather overdressed for the season in a thick hoodie. Talked to him afterwards. He’s “in recovery,” staying with his mother. His home is Columbus, Ohio, where he works for a steel manufacturer. He listed some of the buildings for which they were responsible. He was proud of them.
