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.