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.”