Sunday, March 31, 2024

Easter

 March 31, 2024

Easter Sunday

God has gone up with a shout, and the Lord with the sound of trumpets.

Most of the day a flawless, cloudless celestial blue.

Three services so close together exhausting for us, but, one hopes, inspiring for the congregation. 

Brunch after at the Village Pub. 

Maybe its exhaustion, but at the moment I look at the Paschal Mysteries as a child through a window at some distant, forbidden thing. They are not for me. I was not invited. I have failed to beat my way in. I waved my palm on the highway, shouted my hosanna,  and that ended my part in the story. 


Holy Saturday

 

March 30, 2024

Holy Saturday

Bright as burnished gold. Planted the second sweet bush, burying the Palm Sunday palms in its hole. Cleaned, moved, and reset one of the water gardens. Attached the hose and gave everybody a good drink. Preparing for the Great Vigil of Easter. Is this known to people who are not Episcopalians? We overdo it, making a celebration into a task, but someone at each moment is probably enraptured. 

“For this day the Lord will fight for you, and you have only to keep still.”


Good Friday

 March 29, 2024

Good Friday

The flux hit in the dead of night and continues to ths morning. I blame Fresh Market cold cuts. I asked the cleaning ladies to start with my bathroom in case I have to make a sudden beeline. 

When I woke and looked out my window, the lone turkey hen still haunted the garden. 

Lunaria in bloom. I cherish it as I had nothing to do with it, a pure gift from the land. 

Afternoon: the sickness, whatever it was, was more than just flux. I slept most of the day, and could lie down and sleep again now– which is a shame, because of the glory and gardening-friendliness of the day. Missed Good Friday noon service at the Cathedral, which I loved singing. I’ll have to honor the Crucifixion in my own way. 

Beautiful Tenebrae with music by AVE. In a trance most of the hour. 


Friday, March 29, 2024

Maundy Thursday

 

March 28, 2024

Maundy Thursday. Blazing cold light. A turkey hen has spent most of the day wandering around in my garden. It’s unusual to see one solitary. Maybe she just had to get away from the flock for a little while. Weeded, planted foam flower and Solomon’s seal.  

Foot Washing at the Cathedral, then the stripping of the altar. Moving. 

In the time between rehearsal and the Maundy Thursday service, I sat in the parish hall listening to a trio of health care workers (evidently) talk about PTSD. They discussed a symptom whereby a traumatic experience replays and replays, years later, with unabated bitterness, the recurrence out of the person’s control. I realized at that moment that the uncontrollable and often context-less repetition of the worst moments in my life, without any apparent reason or trigger, is PTSD. I have a condition I’ve heard of without applying to myself. The remarkable part is that attaching that simple diagnosis to an amorphous and mysterious affliction has made it better already. “Oh, that’s just my PTSD.” A previous explanation was that I had somehow left myself open to demonic possession and those horrible remembrances were the prick of the devils’ pitchforks in my soul. Something like that.

Most beautiful moon.


 

March 26, 2024

Marion Elizabeth Summers July 24, 1924– March 26, 1974. A day set aside for remembrance. This is the anniversary that marks her being gone longer than she was alive. My life since that terrible day is equal to all of hers. Some thing cannot be thought upon. 

Meeting last night: my last hope for Classical, or even just “classy”, selections for us ended last night. It is not what we want. Not who we are. I get blank stares, not of opposition, but of incomprehension. That’s not for us. I was wrong, not them. I belong somewhere else, not them.


Tuesday, March 26, 2024

 March 25, 2024

Note from Fishamble in Dublin: 


Dear David,

Thank you very much for sending your play to Fishamble. We appreciate the time and effort you put into your work.

The Beautiful Johanna takes place in the streets of post-apocalyptic Dublin, where violence and chaos are omnipresent. Johanna and Reiner discuss their romantic history with each other and wonder what went wrong. After tragedy strikes, Johanna runs into a group of teenagers, in need of help, who can’t remember a world without violence and chaos.

The play does a good job of portraying the enduring power of love during a time of chaos. The Mullaneys – because they are never seen by the audience, but only heard – are an ominous and unnerving presence throughout the play.

To fully bring the characters to life, it might be worth going further into the richness and the complexity of the world they inhabit. It would be great to anchor them still further in this world. This might allow the audience to feel more fully immersed in the story. Also, you may wish to consider working on the ending,  to give the story a fully satisfying resolution.

Fishamble will not be pursuing this project.

Yours sincerely, Gavin Kostick and the Fishamble Team

It’s good to hear something, anything from Ireland, through which I passed like a shadow.

Also, from AB, former student, who wrote to AVLGMC to get my address: Comments and questions:

Hello! I am a UNCA alumni and past student of David Hopes and would like to catch up with him and say "thank you." Please, if he is still affiliated with the Chorus, or someone there is still in contact, can you please pass my contact information on to him?

Thanks so much!

*

Without intending to when I rose, I drove out to Brevard Road and bought a new car, a white Corolla Cross. I chose it because it felt exactly the same to drive it as it did to drive the Prius. The bad part was the spasm of grief I felt at parting from the silver Prius, the best car I ever owned. I snuck into it one last time after the deal was done so whisper, “Thank you, thou good and faithful servant.” I anthropomorphize morbidly. In the night, I feel alone, as though I’ve lost another friend. 

Meeting here to nail down the repertoire for summer and GALA. Discussion on how “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” would have to be carefully introduced– ”contextualized”-- so it wouldn’t offend people with its references to God and battle. I have lived too long. 


Passion Sunday

 


March 24, 2024

Long, long Palm Sunday, reading the Passion of Saint Mark at three services. Mark was the journalist of the Gospel Quartet. 


Saturday, March 23, 2024

Arum

 March 23, 2024

Got some of the new plants into the ground, covering the roots of creeping phlox just as rain began to fall. Tick. .  Tick it went on the blade of the spade. Male fern, coral bells. 

Last night’s error was to drink a pot of tea throughout the evening. The tea was caffeinated, and my sleep was strange and fitful. Up at 3 drinking a shot of Irish to mellow out. 

Several weeks of rising from bed with a crippling backache seem to have come to an end. I’d stagger around, trying to flex, trying to stoop, before I could engage any enterprise as taxing as sitting on the toilet. For two mornings now, gone. The exercise provided by gardening?  Simply a new manifestation of my custom, which is to have every affliction known to man, but each only for a little while?

Rehearsal for the reading of the Passion at All Souls. My part includes the curious passage about the young man in a loin cloth, who, after they try to seize him, loses the loin cloth and runs off naked. The internet suggests this is a dead person whom the proximity of Christ raised from the grave. 

T and his second son A mowing the yard, a little prematurely, I thought, but bring on summer. A is more playful than B, his other son. A wanted the bamboo poles I had cut. Someone told T that arum is poisonous. I demonstrated that it wasn’t by putting a leaf in my mouth and eating it. Unless it is, in which case I’m in for a surprise.

 

March 22, 2024

Went early to the river yesterday. Met a man who was up from S Carolina to meet a man with an artificial leg, to learn how to care for another man with an artificial leg. I asked how the prosthesis was fastened to the body, and we talked about that for a while. My white lab returned for a brief visit. I had no sandwich for him. A little girl– eleven or twelve, I guess– approached and asked me if I’d seen any fish. I had not. She asked if I’d seen birds, and I had, so we discussed that. The girl had a silver fox’s brush attached to her pants, she apparently pretending to be a fox. We talked about that. Then I wrote a poem to welcome Stetson, and wept because the poem was good and such things still flow from an unsullied fountain. 

Stopped by Reems Creek and bought $200 worth of plants to put in the places I’m laboriously ridding of vines. 

In the evening, went to NCS. I’d cherished an evening of theater after a long dry spell, even skipping a concert at the old folks’ home to do it. The evening was a success because of the excitement of being in the city, of parking at distance and stopping here and there for ogling and cocktails as I made my way. The couple beside me at Zambra’s were celebrating the twentieth anniversary of a Bob Dylan concert they went to, Dylan playing that very night at Harrah’s. I’m so disconnected I didn’t know Dylan was in town. She lives in Asheville, he in Washington State, and I gathered they hadn’t seen each other in the interval. Saw several friends at the theater, including Adam, a sight for sore eyes, who asked me to be in Montford’s Henry VI. I said yes, counting on something to intervene between now and then. As for the play, this company has established a tradition of giving C plays an A production. Except for one weak actor (the same who had been my Frankenstein) the production was impeccable. The play, Witch, was. . .well, I began looking at my watch about twenty minutes in. It couldn’t commit to an identity, being sometimes a fractured fairy talk, sometimes a feminist discourse, something a gay coming-out exercise, sometimes a half-assed observation of medieval family relations, a bargain basement Lion in Winter. Action stops every now and then so a character can face the audience and declare what the playwright is thinking. The actor playing Scratch could almost pull that off; the others, not. Productions like that make me wonder why I try so hard. But, left the theater for the long merry walk back. Stopped in the Times Bar– which I like though it’s gloomy–for another cocktail, though actually was to pay for access to a bathroom. The goofy bar boy explained Japanese Scotch to me. I asked because a single shot was $28. Felt young and energized striding through the dark streets. 


Friday, March 22, 2024

Vireo

 

March 20, 2024

Meeting here last night to choose music for the next concert. Bad ideas got hammered into good ones by the group process, which I normally don’t trust so much. Dissolute morning led to a productive afternoon, at least in the physical sense: large effort in cleaning out the strangler vines, a difficult task, but one for which progress is visible and gratifying. A vireo perched outside my window when I awoke. 


 March 19, 2024


C and his fiancee S for leg-of-lamb and asparagus. She was not what one expected, but as the night went on the attraction became more and more plausible. We talked mostly of religion. C studies to be an electrical engineer, but his heart is in the arts. 

Baked two batches of cookies for the meeting tonight, one lemon and one vanilla.

The radio downstairs says this is the first day of spring. 

Contemplating the conversation at dinner. We talked about atheism, and how, whatever our relationship with God might be, none of us had turned away or disbelieved. Later I continued down that path on my own, coming to an unexpected conclusion. If there is a God, then things are as I believe them to be. If there is no God, then I have lived a life of unimaginable heroism. 


Tuesday, March 19, 2024

 

March 18, 2024

Cold returns. 

Dinner party with C and his fiancee, which means two showers in two days, a custom broken at the beginning of COVID.

GMC concert at All Souls yesterday afternoon. It was fun to do, but listening to the YouTube recording later was disappointing. We were not good. We were not even good enough for the local amateur group that you come to hear because you know the performers. Sloppy entrances (which I heard behind me during the event), terrible intonation. No sense of ensemble, balance thrown off by a host of loud baritones, Sometimes they’re all that can be heard. Ragged and chaotic. “Pilgrims’ Chorus” alone was near where we need to be. The issues our director returns to again and again– diction, vowels, tone production– are not actually problems. One might argue she cured the problems they used to be. Even so, it’s time to move on. We can’t go to Minneapolis sounding like that. 

Stetson Adam was born this morning. 


Ave atque vale

 


March 16, 2024

My thrashers have returned. Peach tree in flower. White narcissi gathered under the dogwoods.

In response to the crises at UNCA I composed the following. I composed it to send to Mountain Xpress, though I’ll have to consider if it could do any conceivable good. Maybe mortifying the guilty is enough good. Maybe not.

Nobody associated with UNCA who had their eyes open is surprised by its present dire situation. That the university’s administration brought the crisis to pass is not open to much debate. At this point we regard a series of bad choices which cannot fully be explained by simple incompetence.  The destruction of our university had deliberation and intention behind it, which I have yet to understand. Assassination by administration. But why? 

It’s necessary to understand that college administrators are not a meritocracy, but a caste, handing off important positions to one another regardless of performance. A college administrator cannot screw up enough not to get a new position. Chancellors and provosts who should have been ignominiously fired skip unchastened off to other appointments. It’s not required that an administrator have any love for or understanding of the institution they serve. A more than casual interest in education can be a distraction to Corporate ideology. It is understood that the administrator will act chiefly for the furthering of her own career. Leaving ruin behind is not, by the administrative caste itself, frowned upon.  We had a few who loved us and many who had their eyes on some further prize. 

I spent thirty seven years as a faculty member at UNCA. When I arrived it was vital, forward-looking, gaining national attention as a dedicated public liberal arts school. When I retired, it stood barely on the level of a superior high school, its faculty and staff demoralized and in constant professional peril, its administration bloated, unresponsive, without vision or backbone. Culture and demographics are not to blame. The wrong people were perpetually–and intentionally–hired. Whether Phillips Hall or Chapel Hill is responsible I don’t know, but the administrators imposed on us were notable for their indifference– sometimes hostility–to the academic enterprise. Education was replaced by single-minded attention to the increase of numbers. Yes, both those causes can be served at once, but not by the people who came to us. Somehow, increasing the customer base by compromising the product never struck anyone as absurd. 

After a certain, quite specific, point, administration cultivated institutional contempt and divisiveness, doing whatever it could to undermine faculty authority. Overriding academic standards to let bad students slide by was meant to garner student favor and make the faculty look harsh. Graduating students who had not completed their requirements (I had this precise experience) demonstrated  how casual the violation of public trust was in our eyes.. Busywork initiatives were introduced to keep faculty from concentrating on scholarship and pedagogy, and to give the ever swelling ranks of administration something to administer. Title IX was weaponized, so its original commission to protect the vulnerable and offer opportunities to the under-served was lost, becoming, in the hands of a badly equipped and wholly unchecked individual, a bludgeon to terrify faculty and prevent the free exchange of ideas. There was no interest in verification or even reasonableness once it was discovered how much damage could be done by anonymous accusation. This ended the era of free and open academic speech, without which no university exists. “Critical Thinking” faded from among the university’s battle cries, because it was the last thing any administrator wanted. 

Administration exhibited contempt for our students in asserting that the least was enough for them. Why hire a good faculty member when a mediocre one could be had for less? Why hire tenure-track academics when adjuncts can be strung along at starvation wages? Why build programs or initiatives when it is cheaper to retain (and restrict) the ones you have? Our kids won’t know better, won’t need anything better in their circumscribed lives. Administration, rightly concerned with enrollment, typically went the wrong way to enlarge it. You offer something unique, something not known elsewhere, some inimitable excellence. UNCA Administration at no point in the last fifteen years has been interested in excellence. It assumed its clientele didn’t want excellence, wouldn’t know how to put it to use, wouldn’t notice the lack of it. I served on three committees at various time to get a Phi Beta Kappa chapter for UNCA. We were turned down every time, the half-articulated reason being our clearly articulated indifference to academic excellence. Why would an ambitious young person choose this? 

  Admissions, to increase numbers, began to admit students who were not prepared for college, and in some cases never would be. To retain those who ought not to have come in the first place, a system of “accommodations” was introduced, so compromising of academic standards there was no use in maintaining standards at all. Why should you have to attend class or do the work? Why have such difficult requirements? Why comprehensive exams or capstone essays? They’re so hard. You didn’t attend class, but if we fail you, we won’t get the next tuition check, and our graph lines will take a dip. Why have requirements at all?  Curriculum became an irritant to college administration. It does not quickly pull the graph line in the right direction. It does not immediately increase the banking of fees and the sale of diplomas. 

Ironically, neither did the prescribed dumbing-down. 

UNCA stopped being an institution of higher learning, but continues to be a degree-granting institution. UNCA , now, is not interested in what a student learns, or how well she learns it. Faculty are resented for wanting to insert a few lectures and a few exams or a bit of knowledge before the students can be turned into donating alumni. UNCA loses students because it has nothing to offer (except for those faculty members still faithfully soldiering on in the face of opposition and deprivation) but a cynical pocketing of tuition, too much of which goes to the Administration which imposed the system– you see the vicious cycle. I would not recommend UNCA, where I spent 95% of my professional life, to anyone. This breaks my heart. My legacy, and the legacies of hundreds of others, is gone. 

What’s the present solution? Cut programs. Fire adjuncts. Leave vital faculty positions unfilled, retain superfluous administration. Of course. In time of famine, kill the farmers and enrich the owners of grocery conglomerates. Any faculty or staff in the past two decades could have pointed all this out; administration was too arrogant to listen. 


Bluebirds

 


March 14, 2024


Brilliant day, again. Some gardening, mostly a trip to riverside and a drive to Biltmore to pick up my taxes. In the end the US owes me over a thousand and the state $60. The state almost never pays, so we all rejoiced. Lunch on the terrace of Cantina. The river bank teemed with bluebirds. 


 

March 13, 2024

Eugene David Hopes, b. March 13, 1919.

Spent the fine day in the garden, achieving not that much with the maximum of effort. The issue was bamboo, the incredible difficulty of keeping it controlled. My shoulder. . . my elbow. .  my legs. . .  But I can still do it, which is the take-away. 

Cold turned the magnolia blossoms to parchment. 

More news of the demise of UNCA. A case of assassination by administration. Vision would have helped, but anyone could have stopped it at any time with a little backbone, with the application of a little common sense. My legacy and the legacy of hundreds of others gone. 


 March 12, 2024

Sat beside the river and wrote, buying, with part of my sandwich, the company of the local white Lab. Sitting with me in the sun, his primary qualities were dignity and solidity. He doubted nothing about himself. He was kind and stayed with me as long as he thought right, then moved on.

Back in the garden, back at the removal of vines.

Unusual sense of well-being, as though some blessing came as foam on the ripples of a tide. 


Monday, March 11, 2024

 

March 11, 2024

Up early, dark, as when I was working. Wind rattles the attic doors.

Finished The Premiere before it was light.

First gardening of the year: pulling up a tithe of the infinity of English ivy. Bending over healed the soreness in my back. Remember that. 

Finally looked at a file my sister sent after she had rendered our old home movies onto video. Devastating, those old faces, those old memories. I couldn’t watch it all the way through, but will go back bit by bit. First take-away: I was perpetually embarrassed in my own house. Second; I miss my dog Bimbo more than is justified by the passage of time. 

 

March 10, 2024

Radiant, frigid day, wind like a glittering razor. Got in two hours of work on a play before church, despite the time change. Excellent flute and keyboard recital in the afternoon. L stood in the Baptistry for several minutes shouting at someone, her face contorted with rage. I could see inside from where I stood: there was no one there but her. Dream before waking: I’m a film actor in Los Angeles. On a certain day all the film actors go down to this huge, flowing river (clearly not the Los Angeles) and jump in, fighting hard to tread water and keep afloat. At intervals huge fish brush up against us. You have to look quickly, because on the sides of the fish the name of our next project is written


 March 9, 2024

Back to painting. Felt a physical need to move brush across canvas. 

Walgreen’s refilled two prescriptions without fuss, delay, or a flurry of phone calls. Nearly fainted. The trailer park couple before me in line had to negotiate among cash and a gift card and a credit card to pay for their prescriptions. Sometimes I accept the reminders of how relatively easy I have it. 

Tax man emails that I’ll get a modest refund from the US and owe modestly to the state. Better than the many thousands I owed in the past. 

On the phone with C, whose girlfriend is pregnant. They’re coming over next Monday for dinner. I suppose this means the end of my trying to get him into bed. 


Saturday, March 9, 2024

 

March 8, 2024


Rain. Aborted chores here and there in the city. 

My legs work very badly. It’s not the joints, no particular distress in knee or hip or ankle. 

Mind spinning its wheels like a truck  in the mud. 

First task of the gardening year will be ding something about the godforsaken bamboo. 

Getting familiar with the apartments next door from having to re-deliver their mis-delivered mail. 

Playing “Rejoice O Bethany” compulsively. 


Friday, March 8, 2024

Assault

 

March 7, 2024

Performance art professionals who have done the job for a long time should– to increase their own joy–hire another professional (not a friend) to do periodic critiques. Disrespect, faulty practice, unconsidered habits begin to haunt rehearsals. Because they’ve had no peers for a long time, and custom forbids mere participants from saying anything, these problems go unnoticed by the perpetrator. It would be useful for someone they admire to pick out a few issues and say “stop that.”

Sat by the river and wrote, though it was cold and cloudy. Bought a copper mantis sculpture from the Forge at my river office. Much activity among the geese. The cleaning lady was not done when I came home, so I went back to the river at a different spot, the riverside park in Woodfin. I picked the table nearest the river. Moments after I sat down a man was striding deliberately up to me. He had a chain like a dog leash in one hand. He said, “You picked the wrong day to come to the river.” In the next instant he grabbed the collar of my coat with one hand and manipulated the chain, as if he were going to strangle me, with the other. I remembered what I could of Hsing I long ago, put both hands against his side and pivoted as hard as I could. I may even have overdone it, for he went into the river. The water was deeper at the shore than I thought, and when he stood it was up to his waist. He was clearly in his 20's or 30's, and I was never going to get to the car before he got to me, so I charged him as he tried to climb out at the spot he went in. It was a bluff, but he fell back. He waded upstream a yard or so and tried to climb out again. As far as I could see, he’d lost the chain. He shouted, “Get off me!” as he pulled himself out of the river. I expected a renewed attack, but he strode to the parking lot and drove away. I sat down to calm myself. In a minute I met an Irish wolfhound named Dylan. I looked at his mistress to see if she’d seen anything, but the serenity of her countenance suggested not. I thought I might have imagined some of it, but the place where he’d dragged himself out was still wet, with a clear shoe print in the mud. Wondered what to do. I saw him get into an old white truck, but I couldn’t make out the license, and ownership of an old white truck includes a fifth of all males between Woodfin and the Ohio River. A not-big, scruffy white man in a red-and-plaid jacket, blue denim underneath, ball cap that said I forget what. Knowing the police will be worse than useless, I decided to set it down to experience. 

I bet he wouldn’t have tried the lady with the wolfhound. 

Drove to Tractor Supply and longed to buy ducklings or baby chicks. 

Garden of the Bears

 

March 6, 2024

Deep spring rain postpones the need to decide whether to work in the garden. Spears of iris breaking ground everywhere. 

J backs out on The Green Cockatoo. Troubles in his life. Glad I didn’t get any further than I did. 

Finished the big edit and revision of The Garden of the Bears. Cobbling together the snipped out parts of God in the Waters for another whole play (probably a one-act). 


 

March 5, 2024

Hiram has called its 24th President. Not bad for 174 years. Which one was Jagow? 

KD is dead.

Spent a shocking portion of the day trying to get Facebook back. I was thrown off it in the morning, and all attempts to regain access or change my password or send in required extra documentation was thwarted by “Unable to comply at this time” or “service presently not available” or “unexpected error” or simply a blank screen. Revolving doors. Trapdoors. Asked for 10 or 11 reset codes, checking to make sure the phone number was right; none of them arrived. Some combination of spell-casting and repetition got me back on, don’t actually know how. Then I went through the same process with my phone, whose time stamp had suddenly gone awry (or something). The worst part was the realization of how much I depend on this service for social contact. 

Somebody observed that English speakers tend to keep their tongue resting at the roofs of their mouths. Now I can’t stop noticing that. 

Maranatha


 

March 4, 2024

Two raccoons cavorted at the end of my garden while I made coffee. Allow me to think that they’re the two I rescued from my attic, all grown up.

Morning at the river. There was going to be no poem, so I allowed random thoughts. Ring-billed gulls cavorted on the water. Two physically demonstrative lesbian couples reminded me of a couple in my senior seminar late in my career. They fondled and nibbled each other all through class, murmuring lip to ear, and instead of critiquing, which was the purpose of the seminar, praising each other’s wisdom and expressiveness. I was sorrowful because I stood on the wrong side of love, though I considered it was more politics than love. Bringing balance, two young men sat in skirts, pretty sweaters, dangly earrings and brayed at each other in big male voices. The resident white Lab politely showed me to my seat. 

Revision: sad-making. One of us sees a play as a garden, the other as a road. The piece is a better road now, a worse garden. 

The daffodils are in bloom. 


 


March 3, 2024


Complicated dreams about being part of the faculty of a university that was also a campground. 

A gives a spectacular concert for our Lenten series.  

Sunday, March 3, 2024

 

March 2, 2024

Rain cleared into magnetic blue. I sat on the porch and read a chapbook somebody sent me. It was quite good, and got me in a Muse-friendly mood. Wrote about my purple anemones. Discovered what I was writing about on the last line. Drove to the river at Woodfin and sat to listen to the frogs. Repeatingly prayed the Jesus Prayer in the immaculate, sinking golden light. A dog named Alex let me pet him before he dived into the river after a ball his owner had thrown. 

 

March 1, 2024

Saint David’s Day.

For the first time remembered to say “rabbit rabbit” first thing on the first day of the month. I’m sure it will make all the difference. 

Odd moments with Alexa. The kitchen was making strange, intermittent noises, not like the clawing of an animal or the dripping of water. I investigated several times and couldn’t figure it out. Later I checked one last time, and it was Alexa, making odd and random noises, like the static on old radios. I unplugged her and it ended. Plugged her back in and the noises didn’t return. When I went to bed I asked the bedroom Alexa “Who’s your favorite singer?” She said “Beyonce.”  I said “What’s my favorite music?” She promised to “Play your most requested songs.” The series she played were all absolutely unfamiliar to me, and ones I had certainly never requested, though, with a few exceptions, to my Renaissance-y taste.


Leap Day

 

February 29, 2024

Last Leap Day, 2020, saw me make the last entry in the last of my studio journals. Knowing that the studio was doomed and I could not move my things, and had nowhere to move them, I advertised my paintings gratis, and that was the day people came to get what they wanted. Michael Thompson furnished his apartment. Old friends, choir mates, tourists, no doubt thinking “what an odd thing,” carried away works of. Somebody left a $20 bill on a stool. And that was that.