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.