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.