Feast of the Nativity

 

December 25, 2023

Feast of the Nativity

Gathering in Alpharetta, the growing clan and a few friends. Recipients seemed to like the paintings I brought as gifts. Drove back into the mountains in time for our Christmas Eve service, which ended a little after midnight this morning. The service seemed lovely, but solemn, a very Episcopal celebration. The bishop had fun whirling the thurible about. I was in good enough voice. Moon moving toward full. Vodka when I got home, because I couldn’t sleep. Santa passed me over again. But it’s all right. 

Learned I can drive to Atlanta and back on less than a tank of gas. Being one who fills the tank whenever the needle hits 1/4, I’d never put it to the test. 

Worked on The Riding Fun House, baked molasses spice cookies, listened to carols on the radio.  Listened to our Christmas Eve performance on You Tube. I never know what to think about our sound. It’s probably affected in some way by position or recording apparatus, but to me it’s a little disappointing. The trebles sound aged and wobbly. The uncertain places are not the result of practice or direction, but deficiencies, I think, of individual voices, which in a volunteer organization cannot be helped. Great rain for the Nativity. 

 December 23, 2023

Hilton Hamilton “Curio” in Alpharetta. Driving was horrendous. Two dead stops for traffic accidents on 85, neither of which appeared to have produced injuries or fatalities. Too many cars, too many traveling at once, and I but adding to it. If asked what holiday gift I most wanted all my life I would say, “not to travel on Christmas.” What have I done for fifty years? Traveled on Christmas. Sweet day despite all. The jacket I brought is too heavy. Wandered little downtown Alpharetta. “Fragile” was the unexpected word that seemed to describe it all. Hosted my own little party in the hotel bar, J, L, J, D abd I, which was more festive and jolly than could have been anticipated. Good start to Christmas.

 

December 22, 2023

Ended the longest night with a trip to the Y and a brisk work-out. 

Call from Wells Fargo. One J B–unknown to me– wrote himself a check on my account for $4632+.  He must have intercepted a check at the mailbox. This may explain why credit cards have been reporting missed payments when I never allow such a thing. One suspects the mailman. Who else has access? I wonder how it’s done, though one probably can’t ask. 

Very strange: I’ve brimmed more with the “Christmas Spirit”–whatever that might actually be– than at any time since I was a kid. I listen to Christmas music for hours, paintbrush in hand, perfectly happy. I sit beside the lit tree thinking– who knows? Peaceful and expectant. It’s sweet. I’ll stop trying to explain it. 

Bach Christmas Oratorio. 

Much praised on Facebook for a painting of the French Broad at the Solstice, that took me one evening to do. It painted itself, though I don’t know how to explain that so it doesn’t sound like a wisecrack. In writing, too, speed– or at least dispatch– has been the mark of doing it right. I pay for that with the agony of publication. Which way would I have rather had it? 

Longest Night

 

December 21, 2023

Solstice, cold and bright. I went to the riverside determined to write, and I did. Concentration allowed me to ignore the cold, which lessened, anyway, minute by minute as the sun climbed. A woman carried her cat to the bank and let him play in the shallows. Her dog, in a white jacket, followed. The dog greeted me briefly, sat by me, maybe because I hogged the best patch of sun. Geese floated on the far side, as did a dark bird I could not identify (damn these glasses) which moved with amazing speed without taking to the air. Something in that tableau opened the door to deep and for the most part unidentifiable grief. I crossed the river and climbed high into the dry, broken woods and wept. The cat was part of it. I miss my cats. I will be alone this Christmas for the first time in thirty-five years. But beyond that– desolation, isolation, futility beyond all cats. I sat in the wilderness where I could howl my spirit out without detection. Could hardly make it back to the car for exhaustion afterward. Still haven’t figured it out. My emotions were beyond my own understanding. They were bigger than I. Some cleansing power of the Solstice, perhaps. At the very depth, at the dark place beneath the darkest place, I hear my voice crying out please. . . please. . . please.  That the Lord will not answer is the stumbling block to all my faith. 

French Christmas music from the Internet.

 December 20, 2023

Darkening toward the Solstice.

Went to Marquee on Foundry Street to see if my application for a space has gained traction. R, the owner, didn’t seem to think that my work would be a good fit there. He didn’t say that, but, if I interpreted correctly, it was the vibe he gave out. In any case, no spaces were open– so he said–and I’ll be contacted when there are. Or not. I argued to myself that there were plenty weirder productions than mine. The space isn’t right for me, being just one step up from one of those tacky antiques malls where every redneck rents a stall, but I’m not sure what else to do. It’s a small commitment and small expenditure, so I hope it happens, if only to thin out the mass of artwork gathering in my attic. My gifts, though in some ways considerable, have never been especially crowd pleasing. I write books nobody wants to read, plays that nobody wants to see, paint paintings that only very peculiar people would want on their walls. I think of turning my energies to more poplar ways of doing things, but that would be worse, especially if it didn’t work. 

Lunch at Twelve Bones in cold, clear winter light. Most restaurant servings are too large for me these days. 

Massive restructuring of my portfolio.

Last night sitting in my living room and at times today I realized that I was happy, the happiness an underlying harmony that specific things being wrong did not compromise. 

Fifteen Thousand

 

December 19, 2023

To the Y early, early in the shocking cold. Something had dragged the egg shells away from where I put them in the garden. Something trying to subsist on empty egg shells in this bitter weather put pity into my heart. 

Signed on to my aol account after several years. Fifteen thousand unread messages. . . .ten of which may have been direct and personal to me. 

Another David Hopes– David Terence Hopes– is a physician in Plymouth, UK. Attractive man with a gentle voice.

Vestry: M used our time (for the 7th or 8th time) to weep over something happening in her life. Weeping garbled her speech so that I never knew what it was this time. 

Trump excluded (for the moment) from the Colorado ballot. The test of whether we are actually a government of laws and the Constitution is if Trump ends up in prison. If he does not, the way to every bully and strongman stands open. Where is our Lincoln? Is it Jack Smith?

Revery

 December 18, 2023

Vaughan-Williams wafting up from the device in the kitchen.

Baking disaster. Probably over-adapted one of those antique recipes that actually calls for oleo. Should have seen it coming, as something went wrong at every stage of the process. 

Places north and east of us sustained a terrible storm last night. Maybe the mountains protect us. But one of my dreams was of buying a house whose roof leaked. The other was getting back an item– a huge black watering can, I think– which TD had stolen from me. 

Amazed by the time my mind spends reviewing memories, most of them disturbing or disappointing, about wrongs I failed to right or actions of mine that time showed to be. . . or hinted might have been-- hurtful. Perhaps this is Purgatory, though whatever wisdom is meant to come out of repentance is diluted by the fact that, for the most part, given the information I had, I could not have done otherwise. Someone was in need, and I gave all, informed later, to the distant cackle of a mischievous universe, that it was not what was needed at all. 

        These things turning in my head, are they punishment or information? If information, how can they be used now that everyone else involved is gone?

Painted a quirky still-life. 

Studying Italian again. 

I think of nights when my family went out and I begged and begged to be left home, and when I was allowed, I stared at the Christmas lights in extended revery. I made them into roads and distant cities, intending somehow to walk there. Secret in my heart is the fact that I do the same these nights in a different century. Blessings for that, in any case. 

 

December 17, 2023

S’s birthday party last night in West Asheville. Crowded, convivial– the rest of Virginia Ave, though, dark and empty, a Christmas haunting. After that to the Cathedral to hear the newly re-named group, A, sing the most purely I have heard outside of Cambridge. Tone like a shimmer of silver. 

Bitter rain.

Forlorn photographs of the Magnetic, now empty of all its equipment and theatrics. 

Gibbons’ “This Is the Record of John,” which I remember from the Saviour in Syracuse as beyond magical. Looked up the Saviour on the Internet: now a “chapel,” whatever that means, and whose interior has been modernized into unrecognizability, from the angles provided.

Nimmo's Quay

 

December 15, 2023

Y before dawn. Hardest workout since I wandered back to the gym. Teenage girls on Christmas break apparently just wandering about. 

Finished the revision of Nimmo’s Quay. 

Ate salad.

Found a reason not to go to the theater.

 December 14, 2023

Y in the dark before dawn, Venus glittering like a great jewel high in the east. Less the beauty than the simple manliness of men is what attracts me. Tried to make a donation, but the counter lady didn’t know how to take it. “Oh, I’ve been on vacation and our computers ave been down and I just don’t know how to catch up.” I walked away. What an odd, un-institutional kind of shortcoming. Lunch with SS to discuss the local theater scene. It has always been a disaster. Today’s is just one version of it. He’s more anxious about making a point and getting to it cleanly than I am. I’m happy to wend my way.

A God in the Waters

 

December 12, 2023

Reading of A God in the Waters here last night. Never winced, never thought O My God Why Did I Say That– in short, was entirely pleased. The play is nearly perfect in my ear, but what that means in the great world is impossible to say. It is all of a piece, descended from the same vision, unlike some things that get cobbled together out of bits and pieces. I wonder if other people can tell which is which. Quite good readers. I wondered how they kept from inspecting the Christmas trees, as I would have done. 

Vast pot of vegetable soup turns out to be bland. In goes half a bulb of garlic. 

Hayden at the UC of C

Auditioned on invitation for a February show at Magnetic. The plot is ludicrous, and when I asked for clarification they said, “it’s a farce.” They’ll be unhoused then, so I don’t know where this show will be, and didn’t ask. The set for their last show in their space is covered with naked bodies and glitter. K begged me to come to it, so I suppose all will unfold anon. 

 

December 10, 2023

Winter rain. The car was rifled last night. There wasn’t much to steal, but they made off with two packs of gift wrap (leaving one) and made a mess. Left expensive binoculars behind. Considering how seldom I leave the car unlocked, either the thief was hugely lucky or sneaks in often enough to find exactly those occasions. The car was parked practically behind the house, so the intruder was bold. Will move the camera to face that way. Just after the robbery discovery, I was donning vestments in order to impersonate Saint Nicholas for the Sunday School, as I have many times past, but not recently. I think I did well, and though it is a cause of anxiety, I enjoyed it in the moment and after. Many faces gazing up at me in what might be interpreted as wonder.

Tried to relate an anecdote to J concerning our time together at a pub in London. He said, “We have never been in England together.” With some difficulty I dragged out the remembrance of the summer we spent teaching at Lucy Cavendish in Cambridge. He said, “I have almost no memories of that.” Not everyone inhabits their memories the way I do, apparently.  

 

December 9, 2023

Woke in a rage, rolling over on my mind every affront I’ve suffered in the last half century. You wonder where my mind was the moment before waking.

Cold winter rain, Medieval Spanish music. 

 

December 7, 2023

Pearl Harbor. No planes in the sky here, nothing but cool robin’s egg blue.

Bought my ticket to Minneapolis. That die is cast. Buying the ticket was an ordeal which I did not endure cheerfully, until discovering that I had filled a form out wrong and caused it all. 

Sat by the river watching two little boys and their dad play.

Went to campus for the first time since retirement– only because I was having a bathroom emergency and it had the closest one. 

Dinner with DJ in an empty restaurant. Quizzed about our meals by the owner who had nothing else to do. Impressed by the vulnerability of having to rely on an electronic chair to get around. The least mishap is life-threatening. 

 

December 6, 2023

Greek Orthodox chants.

Found missing decorations two feet to the right of where I looked for them. Sobbed, as I always do, when I found Conrad’s tiny stocking. Conrad was the Christmas kitty. When he was sick I’d sleep in the living room with him curled against my chest, so he could enjoy the Christmas tree lights as long as he was alive. The cloth Santa and wreath Bonnie Lundblad gave to me. 

Listened to the tape of the GMC concert. It is good. I mean, good without making excuses. I am the least attractive person on the risers. 

When I was young– maybe four– my parents were told I was about to die, so they wanted to give me an adventure, so we went on a train from Akron to Youngstown. I remember it vividly–the train itself, the downtown hotel with a view of a city different from my own but somehow the same, the attentive people in the lobby, my own private tiny suitcase, the excitement I caused by throwing my socks out the window. What I don’t remember was if it was Christmas time, or did I just happen to think of it now. 

M publishes photos of himself and his children on Facebook to announce–subtly– that A is now out of the picture. 

 

December 5, 2023

Began the day at the Y. Seeing faces from before the Pandemic.

Re-wrote my St. Nicholas piece for next Sunday.

Read through N/R’s new poem. She is my first student ever who is a better poet than I am. 

 

December 4, 2023

Clear light from the east.

Tumultuous days. I’ll likely omit details that seemed important at the time.

Advent Lessons and Carols Saturday afternoon, amid the activities of A Dickens Christmas in the Village. Sweet service. My reading of “the Lamb” seems to have struck a chord. Rushed from All Souls to Grace Presbyterian to do our evening concert for GMC. I was better than at rehearsal, perhaps a solid “B.” my legs hurt so bad by the time we left the stage that I wondered if I should give up performing. I looked like Frankenstein’s monster tottering down from the risers. Many errors in the rows behind me, voices carrying through rests, coming in measures early. I’m on record as thinking the repertoire was, with a few exceptions, without quality and without imagination, which did not prevent it from being an apparent hit. My theory is that if you serve gourmet or carnival hot dogs people will eat and enjoy, so you might as well go with a little nourishment. It matters to the cooks if not to the consumers. That seems to be no one else’s theory. How certain people became experts on what draws a crowd is a mystery to me. . . though I must admit, after Ben and Angela, I can claim no expertise there either. I do know that aiming at the lowest common denominator is, in art, eventually, an error. The Sunday afternoon version was better, and I give myself a B+, still coping with an iffy mucousy voice. Many familiars in the audience. Afterwards we retired, almost en masse, to Rye Knot. R’s gossip setting was at boil, and at close range, around the restaurant table, I was able to hear some of the rant that perpetuates certain wry conceptions of our history. Uncharacteristically, I determined to set the record straight, and there was a little back and forth. R must realize on some level that everything he says is bullshit, so it didn’t rise to a quarrel. He libeled M, calling him homophobic because he doesn’t list us on his table of achievements. He doesn’t because we treated him abominably. Why honor a wretched experience? Wand B forced him out with unwavering opposition. I’d have kept my mouth shut had new members not been at the table, liable to be swayed by the flood of effluvia. 

In Denver we sang a set of sea chanteys that were widely noted and admired. R rolled his eyes and asked, “I want to know what do old-time sea-songs have to do with the experience of gay life in the mountains?” Was he just blabbering, or do people really think that the only art worthwhile is that which reflects the awful narrowness of their own experience? What about their aspirations?  What WOULD reflect the experience of gay life in the mountains? And, living it, why would we think of the repetition of it as entertainment? It’s a wonder Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter are popular, as they reflect no conceivable person’s actual experience. I’m angrier about it now than I was in the moment, probably because now I’m sure I’m right. 

Knowing how meagerly he is employed, I wanted to pay for S’s dinner, but I couldn’t figure out how to do it without looking like I was paying for S’s dinner.

Quite early to bed. A solid ten hours all at once, unusual to me, who usually supplement short nights with huge naps. 

Late morning by the river, pristine with winter. Wrote a poem. 

 December 1, 2023

Y first thing in December. A homeless boy had his things gathered around him on the outside bench. They called the cops on him.

Sat in the freezing rain at Starbuck’s and watched the traffic on Charlotte Street.

Dress rehearsal for GMC last night. I did as badly as I’ve ever done, fighting my voice, never knowing when a note would come and when it would not, anxiety and exhaustion making me inattentive and, to my section, not very helpful. On the other end, a three hour rehearsal is inexcusable. Standing in one place for extended periods of time will not be part of my future. 

When I return at night and my headlights light up the back yard, I see the white zig-zag of the tails of startled rabbits. 

Background: Die Kunst der Fuge

 

November 30, 2023

Made vegetable soup. Worked on a play. Fought off drowsiness from cold medication. 

TN has died. Shane McGowan is dead.