May 30, 2024

Not a day of the journey when I have not worn the old lined yellow raincoat that I thought I’d brought just for arctic emergency. Looks just as cold this morning, though a shaft of light punches under the clouds from the harbor. 

Bad night last night, sleep-deprived as is measured in my well-slept world. Partially it was the Africans in the next room. I thought they were fighting, but after a while I realized it was simply conversation in a tradition louder than my own. I didn’t want to be the elderly white guy shouting “Quiet” at people who had no idea they were trespassing in any way. Also it was the mistake of poring through old journals. The past is always a tragedy, always sad with the sadness of a range of mountains that allow one to get so high and no higher, forever. 

Also it was the snippy hotel bar waitress who looked everywhere but at me, hoping I’d go away and let her continue stocking.

One more thing about the opera: Verdi can take two arias to make a point for which the playwright has a sentence. 

Returned to the Crawford, where my visit had been interrupted by opera tickets. Contemporary offerings thin and ephemeral, traditional offerings mostly patriotic, though several galleries were closed.

Fish & chips at the Oliver Plunkett. If inedible is a 6 and nasty is a 5, my lunch was a 4. Am becoming reconciled, however, to mashed peas.  A family of eleven from Mauritiaus wanted to be seated together in the pub.

Wandering north of the north river in a bit of sunny afternoon. Five French kids had pulled café tables together on Pope’s Quay and played cards in the slanted, mellow light. Three girls, two boys. I considered how providing that French kids playing cards beside the river in peace and safety is the goal of all government. 

Beamish at Dennehy’s.

 

May 29, 2024

Hiked to Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral. Passed Sullivan Quay on the way, where I felt a frisson of remembrance. To a bar there (it must have changed its name since the event, and I don’t recall the current one) I came in 1980 to hear an Irish poet and met Liam Broderick, who lingers in memory as one of the great and momentary loves. I did seek him once later, a task impossible unless you’ve more than a name to go on, even adding that he was a university student. Forty-four years ago. It cannot be endured. Realized my journals from 2005 are on this computer, whereby discovering The Rose Lodge, the lovely B&B that I had when I spent New Year’s here, is still in operation, though my hostess Alice must be long retired. I spent more time in pubs in 2005 than I do now. Didn’t go to plays or operas every night. Could count on erotic assignations, as I cannot, or dare not, now. 

In the Cathedral a lovely docent was far more eager to give me a tour than I was to take it– wanting to be alone with my thoughts–but on it went, and I did learn a great deal. She asserts that the Cathedral was built as an assertive monument to Anglicanism in a time when Irish Catholics were beginning to build churches of their own again. That explains its voluptuous Victorian overstatement of every detail. It still remains loudly majestic. Forty-four years ago I met the assistant dean (or somebody) and we talked about Spenser. The ambulatory was closed for repairs, and I waited 25 years to see it, and saw it again today. The red Cork marble of the church trim is now used up. The docent told me twice that when the old cathedral was pulled own, they found one of King Billy’s cannonballs lodged in the tower. 

Cork is some 300 years older than Dublin. One does not feel such antiquity in the stones. 

Tonight, the National Opera Company’s La Traviata. I had the best possible seat, second inhabited row, dead center, the only impediment being the back of the director’s head. He was energetic and had lovely, silky hair. I’ve always been lucky in theater seats. I’d seen the opera years ago in London, but remember nothing but Violetta’s dress. It was gorgeous and adept in all the ways a show like that is meant to be gorgeous and adept. The choruses I sang with the Asheville Symphony made better sense in context. But, also, it was ludicrous, without one moment of what anyone would recognize as actual human emotion. This is not a flaw, but a typical and expected aspect of the art form, Italian Kabuki, a Venetian mask set to shield one from all untidy true (and therefore hurtful)  emotion and allow the curated tempests of a soap opera. I’d forgotten how flimsy and absurd the crisis is. It doesn’t matter to anyone who buys in. I did not fully buy in, alas, while admiring, as I had not before, Verdi’s musical and theatrical mastery. The young lady beside me lives in Alaska but was brought to the opera by her grandfather, who lives in New Hampshire– they have relatives or something in Cork. The Japanese man on the other side wore the only suit in the house and recorded the show on his phone. 

Drunken boys sing in the plaza below my window, between the hotel and the river. 

Opening Night

 May 28, 2024

Slept ten hours. Woke with most of the edema drained out of my legs. A new day.

Wandered to the opera house to get a ticket for tomorrow night’s La Traviata.  Sold out. Friday sold out too. I charmed the ticket lady into putting me at the head of the waiting list, and I was having tea in the art museum next door when she phoned and had a cancellation for me, Orchestra F, for sight-line reasons the first row of seating. Sometimes you see the hand of God moving. The tomato basil soup in the museum was memorable, subtle, delicious. Took full lunch at a health food store terrace, and, again, it was terrible, 3 selected salads with each ingredient tasting exactly the same, except for varying densities of curry powder. Ireland is not a gourmet’s destination.

It is said that Irish men are the homeliest in Europe, and that is true. They’re raw-boned and goofy. That is part of their charm. 

J messages to say that M has died. He figured large in my life in Syracuse, and once said in the hall of the Hall of Languages, “I love you, David.,” one of few such declarations that I did not flavor with irony. He had success written on every feature. I lost track of him and thought he was living the stylish life in LA, where he was the last I heard from him. His health failed, and after a long illness he died in New Jersey. I’d have written it differently had I been in charge of the story. 

Foot substantially improved.

Almost midnight: Opening night at the Cork Art Theater a colossal success, personal and institutional. The ten short plays had only one clunker among them, and most of them were nourishing or (and) hilarious. Alfie and Greta was a smash, people roaring with laughter. I was very, very happy. In terms of efficiency and elegance of expression, the best of the lot. Met the sweet young cast afterwards. Compared to Irish actors, even amateur ones, most American actors seem to beg just a little for forgiveness or indulgence: “remember, I’m a volunteer!” I never saw an evening of one acts in the US that didn’t have some cringe-worthy performances, some (or mostly) cringe-worthy plays. Not here, not tonight. Lovely.

Noticed that I glide with assurance and confidence through the night streets of Cork. Most of my adventures in the past must have been nocturnal.

Noticed that I went fast on the way home from the theater, my wind solid, almost all the pain gone from my foot, like old bold times. During the last few blocks of my journey, I had the streets entirely to myself. A little creepy. If I drop down to the river there would be more people, though a longer way. 

Cork

 May 27, 2024

Clayton Hotel, Cork City. A bottle of Prosecco sat in ice awaiting me when I entered, and my room has a balcony overlooking the south branch of the River Lee. Lovely, and lovelier if the weather cooperated. The three legs of the journey were grueling. I sat in the lounge in JFK thinking, “this is too hard.” Travel from now on won’t be casual. But I’m here now, and all is well. The pain in my foot curtails my usual strategy of walking and walking till I know the environment pretty well, though in fact I did limp about while my room was being readied, and found the theater, despite its having been marked deceptively on the tourist map. I asked four people and three people told me wrong. They’d never heard of it. One sent me to the Opera House, and the girl at the desk there knew where the Cork Arts Theater is. The theater is dingy and small, exactly what I’m used to. Rain came a couple of times, went away a couple of times. Having been in Cork several times in the past isn’t helping me much. Certain things look familiar, but I’m not meshing them together yet. Odd dream trying (successfully, as it turned out) to sleep on the plane.  MH came to live with me, and convinced me to hire a friend of hers to do some remodeling. The friend and MH tried to take over my house and my life, and I caught them, by no means certainly in time. If I stood close to MH I noticed her flesh was rotting and old mucous had gathered about her nose. How do people earn being in dreams like that? Decided to taxi from Shannon, an expensive choice, but a necessary one given the state I was in after landing. F was my driver, eager to talk politics and well informed about matters on both sides of the Atlantic. I impressed him by being able to cite my favorite places in Limerick, his home town. I’m quite familiar with the land around Shannon, and I realized to day what sets it apart from American landscape. It is completely filled in. In America the land is torn and interrupted, heterogeneous. Here, it is of a piece, like a tapestry, or a pre-Raphaelite painting.  Worked on a play in the Delta Sky Lounges, despite being staunchly drunk. First supper, at the hotel,  disappointing, violently overcooked salmon with barely identifiable vegetables. Excellent sparkling water

 

May 25, 2024

Woke grumpy. The air heavy and gray. I was having an interesting dream, though, in which Ellen and I led an organization that would allow women some freedom or advantage that I can’t remember now. We were dividing up the country into areas of responsibility, and I chose Florida for Ellen, contemplating just before waking whether she’d like that or hate that. 

C the window washer calls periodically to ask if he can pick up a charger and a speaker which some apparatus tells him he left here a month ago. I assure him he did not (at least I haven’t seen them) but invite him to come anyway. He never does. “Oh. . . the traffic was so bad. . . sorry, can we try for Saturday? . . .I had my kid with me and he’s such a handful . . . .” I work not to sink into rage. His mother is the one who sets the time for housecleaning and has to call every time to ask to reschedule or come late. Family trait or red-neck tell? In any case, one of the human failings of which I am least tolerant. Make a date. Keep it. 

Fasciatus enduring, adjusting location, refining discomfort. Can’t wait to run through airports with this. 

Conversation I’d love to hear ONCE during rehearsal:

Director: “You’re behind the beat!”

Singers: “That’s because you’re rushing.”

Director: “Oh, I guess I am.” 

Note: C arrived. The objects he sought were not here.

Extended planning, reassessment, creation of redundant systems have exhausted me in terms of my journey tomorrow. Gigantic layovers may turn out to be restful. 

Cat and Crow

 

May 24, 2024

Rehearsal overwhelming. Too much new music, which will teach us to complain about doing the same old things again and again. C snarled at me during a rest. I could tell from his expression that I was being taken to task, but I actually couldn’t hear what he said. Didn’t ask him to repeat. 

Odd sounds emanating from a crow in the dogwoods brought me to the window. A black cat and a crow faced each other from various places in the tree; As the cat climbed, the crow changed his perch, but did not deign to fly. It was a game, an attempt at contact, neither much intimidated. I heard the same sound yesterday without getting up to look, so I suppose it’s an ongoing drama. 

Fasciatus problematic in my right foot, limping and ouching. 

Frog

 May 23, 2024

Rejoice, unwedded Bride

Celebratory dinner and de-briefing with SS last night. Concerning the production, I was disappointed in nothing, a sentiment which is hard to express without sounding insincere, but there it is. Exalted by much. Made more money than I thought I would. 

Watched as my bullfrog hopped out of the pond. He’s enormous, a little frighteningly so, and bronze as a penny.

 

May 22, 2024

Peonies I did not remember ordering arrived today (odd time to ship!) and got planted. Cactus repotted and left on the porch for the summer. I let the bamboo go a few days and had almost grown shafts to bang through. Some were unbangable, so I had to shake the growing tips off by hand. Fatboi has dug a labyrinth under the tool shed. 

 

May 21, 2024

Installed five new water gardens, employment both back-breaking and serene. 

 

May 20, 2024

Woke to fasciatus in both feet. Remarkable discomfort until I got some shoes on. In that vein, cleaned out my bedroom closet and found four virgin pairs of shoes. The two I tried on fit. Found rubber apparatus that I’d forgotten the use of. 

Pentecost

 

May 19, 2024

Pentecost. Rain rather than tongues of fire. 

Many earnest conversations at church. I sat, listened, felt myself pulling away, as though wanting to hide in invisibility. How much time have I spent alone with my thoughts? How much of that time has been perfect joy?

 May 18, 2024

Sound of Tony mowing on the first day in a week he could without running into rain. 

Avalanche (or at least a trickle: an avalanche in comparison) of praise for A God in the Water.

Save the dates and times of parties and get-togethers, let the date pass, delete the message.

Thunderstorm. All the windows that J just showed me how to open must be closed. 

Finally clearing out the gust room closet. I’d thrown comforters and bedspreads there willy-nilly, whereby their folds became the nursery of generations of mice. Testing to see if laundry removes the stains. 

 May 17, 2024

L& J arrived to see the play. Talky afternoon, festive evening on Patton Avenue downtown (tried a new restaurant, Enterprise, where I had a braised duck soup worth writing about), then behind to see the play, which enjoyed a full house and went exceedingly well. We sat at the back, where I could see the entire audience having a good time. It made me happy. At last curtain I heard the woman across the aisle exclaim to her companion, “I thought that was wonderful!” Full of people I know, which means more to me than it probably should. Talked deep into the night. 

Seeing that parking at AVL airport is at 100% capacity (and why wouldn’t it be a week from now?) I booked a limousine service. The voice on the phone said, “No need to insure with a credit card. I know exactly who you are.” He was B, the Humanities student who 1) was almost too handsome to endure and 2) came to me begging for a D in Humanities, which he was failing, just so he could get at last out of school. Wish granted. 

Second Thoughts

 

May 15, 2024

Having time to think of the review (the only one the production is likely to get) I feel differently. W says at the beginning:  If there were ever a show designed to make me self-conscious about writing a review, A God in the Waters would be it. That being flatly untrue, either in intention or result, I had to consider what was going on. As I did, a scene from Shakespeare in Love popped into my head, wherein actors, asked what Romeo and Juliet is about, answer from the perspective of their characters; “Well there was this Apothecary. . . “ I think the play is about the power of the imagination to reconfigure everyday chaos into the order of artistic creation. I am an artist. Why wouldn’t I think that? I believe SS said he was attracted to the part of Peter because he found himself at the stage of life and career represented by him. The Bs assumed it was about the career of musicians, they being musicians. Our reviewer thinks it’s about criticism because he’s a critic. In some ways what irked me at first turns out to be a towering compliment: that the play may be a mirror in which everyone may see himself. I hope so. I’ll go with that. 

 

May 14, 2024

Internet adventure yesterday. Received a barrage of pop-up warnings that I knew were false but which I couldn’t stop. Miraculously, McAfee really did help to end the issue for the moment. Ironically, the malware had come in on my Kirkus review. 

W writes in Asheville Stages:

If there were ever a show designed to make me self-conscious about writing a review, A God in the Waters would be it.

The latest effort by Asheville-based playwright David Brendan Hopes — produced by The Sublime Theater & Press and debuted May 9 at downtown’s The BeBe Theatre — spends most of its two-hour runtime dwelling on the theme of criticism: whether it be directed at self, family members, or the very concept of objective merit. Its central character, Peter Loredan (Steven Samuels), is a classical composer animated by the impending judgment of a New Yorker reviewer upon his second symphony’s premiere. Its dialogue employs and dissects the language of appraisal, full of words like “inspiration” and “accessibility” and “modern.”

(Samuels himself, who also directed the play, emailed me photos of the production accompanied by the note, “Asheville Stages is our New Yorker.” No pressure at all.)

Such artistic self-reference runs the risk of becoming obnoxiously meta, but aside from a few overly-clever quips in the second act, Hopes avoids that flaw. Instead, he grounds his heady themes in compelling family dynamics that unfold in a measured mix of comedy and drama among the talented ensemble.

The different threads of criticism are most tightly braided in the interactions between Peter and his son Anthony (Jon Stockdale), an accomplished bassoonist and part of the orchestra that performed the elder Loredan’s work. During a reception for the symphony, the two trade wicked barbs about their respective artistry that Hopes heaps with personal meaning; there’s no mistake that their clash is merely the latest in decades of verbal jousting.

The script is excellent, and Samuels’ direction further amplifies its implied study in contrasts between father and son. Anthony’s movements are subdued and measured, Peter’s full of exaggerated gestures and grimacing expressions. Kayren McKnight’s costuming helps make the point as well, with Anthony remaining in his neutral concert tux while Peter slips into a silk jacket with fiery red dragons.

Filling out the family circle is Peter’s wife Emilia (Kathy O’Connor), endowed by Hopes with an exquisite blend of wisdom and worry. O’Connor gives a masterclass in subtle acting as she rides out her husband’s temper with quick sidelong glances, slight wavers of the voice, and a tightening of the grip on his hand throughout key exchanges. Again, the audience understands that she’s witnessed similar moments many times before. 

Into the family triad enter Anthony’s brash girlfriend Amy (Olivia Stuller) and the quietly charismatic hotel waiter Eleven (Adam Olson). Without giving away too much of the plot, both come from outside the insular world of classical music, and their vastly different responses to Peter’s symphony shake up the routines of the Loredan household.

I’ve only seen one other play by Hopes, last year’s Ben & Angela, but I noticed several stylistic similarities in his latest work deployed to great effect. There were monologues infused with the rhythms of poetry, such as Peter and Anthony’s gorgeous descriptions of music. And there was a wordless solo dance (choreographed with great expressive freedom by Kristi DeVille) deployed at a key emotional moment.

Underlying both that play and the present one, I sensed a conviction of basic moral goodness. Throughout A God in the Waters, the playwright asks his audience to consider the point of criticism: What is it good for? Is it a tool for tearing down others, or for proving one’s aesthetic superiority, or for achieving status among a circle of erudite obsessives?

None of these, Hopes seems to say. At its best, criticism should come from a place of love, a desire to help others understand both the good and evil they do not grasp about themselves. The lesson stands for families, for classical musicians — and perhaps for theater critics.

A God in the Waters runs through Saturday, May 18, at The BeBe Theatre. For details and tickets, visit this link. 

*

The play is not actually about criticism at all. Not a bad review, but an ignorant one. Extended sigh.

*

 May 12, 2024

Cool Sunday. Watered the shaken mulberry and the new plantings outside the fence. You look at the clock and it’s time to get up. You look at the clock again and it’s evening. 

Poults

 

May 11, 2024

Cold, clear. Had to turn the thermostat down to avoid waking the furnace.

Downtown last night to see night 2 of A God in the Waters. As I pulled up to park in the street, a scruffy lad knocked on the widow and asked if I could spare him $20. I gave him $20. The theater brimmed with friends and acquaintances, and on that account I was happy. My problem with Ben & Angela was that almost nobody I knew bothered to see it. Already that anxiety is gone with this one. The performance was satisfying in every way. The labor  people put into realizing my work is a constant source of gratitude. Anyway, great praise from the audience. B and J said I’d hit everything musical on the nose. Stopped for a drink in a new bar beside the BeBe. When I got home, a Shakespeare-in-th-Park version of Hamlet played on PBS. It was quite good– the best Ophelia I’ve ever seen–and I heard myself thinking THIS is the company I want to keep. 

Nicolas the tree hombre came with his wife and son to right my dangerously tipping mulberry. Spent $400, but loved saving my beautiful tree.

Planted a new rose and dug out what I recognize now to be resuscitating English ivy when there was agitation on the street, and a car stopped behind my hollies. Checked to see what it was. A woman had seen a turkey hen (probably MY turkey hen) trying to cross Lakeshore with her perhaps twenty chicks. The babies, for the most part, couldn’t get over the curb. So she and I were out there lifting turkey chicks off the road and into the lawn while traffic labored around us. In the midst of it, a hawk zoomed down aiming for the babies. The turkey took flight and saw the predator off. People around here habitually identify all hawks as “osprey,” as did the lady in the street. She remarked that it was like a nature show on TV, Mother Turkey in various sorts of peril. But we got all the babies rescued and disappeared into the lawns west of here. I wished they were coming into my yard, where they would be safe and there is no curb. I forgot the woman’s name, but she lives at the end of Red Oak where, she says, all sorts of wildlife abound, and she takes on the task of looking after them. 

 

May 10, 2024

J at GMC said, “I listened to your podcast. You’re really SMART. I thought you were just another pretty face.”  

Unbelievable how many questions and quibbles gay men have when you announce “dress for the first act is black shirt, black pants, no bling.” W sighed heavy sighs at the prospect of not being able to “personalize” (which is to say, show off) in any vivid way until act II. Not one concert in 24 years has gone unmarred by his insistence on standing out, vocally or visibly. 

SS writes of opening night:

First act a little choppy. (Or so it felt. Watching the video, it looked far better than that.) Second act splendid. Overall: triumphant.Technical glitches, of course, but nothing of the slightest significance or anything the audience would have noticed. A couple of lines bobbled but no real problems, plus one excellent save. Not a single “fuck” or anything otherwise untoward. Unexpected, prolonged applause. After, I came out from backstage, some eight people, all unfamiliar to me, spontaneously offered the highest praise. J, who helped K with front-of-house, reported another person saying, “This is the best play I’ve ever seen in Asheville!”

Once again, only half a house tonight—but, hey, the same night of the run of Ben & Angela had half of that. And we’re sold out tomorrow night.

Very high hopes for the remainder of the run. And I had a note from Daniel Walton of Asheville Stages, after I’d sent him pics to run with his review, that indicated good reason to expect thoughtful praise. (He declares himself a trained violist and allowed as how the play had…resonance.)

*

Wind blew over my tall irises. I don’t normally cut my flowers, but these I did to save them for a while. Most heavenly fragrance. 

Dress

 

May 9, 2024

Tlaloc has been gracious to me, bringing rain after every planting day, though he rather over did it last night with a storm (oddly, from the east) of frightening proportions. It seemed artificial, in a way, the thunder queer-sounding and too close, the rain like a river bashing against the streetlight, which gives me my perspective on such things. It commenced on the stroke of midnight. 

Prior to that I had gone downtown for the dress rehearsal of A God in the Waters. One technical glitch followed another, but one is not too upset over that, the adage being a bad dress means a sensational opening night. Everyone had done their work, and it was a plausible evening of theater even so ragged. Gaps while lines were pulled out of the air. It’s a very wordy play. I do wish A wouldn’t scream “Fuck!” every time she loses a line. But, I was pleased. The essential work was there.

Finishing one of my most complicated paintings. Something was wrong with it, and after a stared at it a while, I realized that painting over one little detail, hardly an inch square, would correct it. Used to one word changing a paragraph; true for the eye as well. 

Some acoustical anomaly makes the repairs going on at Carolyn’s house seem like they’re in my back yard. I keep getting up to see who’s hammering. 

Visitation

 May 8, 2024

Last night as I was settling down in front of the TV, a young bear marched around the porch and into the back. I got up to watch. Though I found sign, it’s been nearly two years since I actually saw a bear in my garden.  He explored the perimeter, took a dip in the pond, came out with a lily pad in his mouth, which was evidently not to his taste. I wanted him to linger, maybe bed down for the night, but he was on the hunt and proceeded with efficiency out the hole onto Lakeshore again. It gladdened my heart. 

Much planting before hard rain. 

 

May 7, 2024

Booked my stay at the Clayton Hotel, Cork. 

Planted succulents in the planters and pots on the front porch.

Turkey hen walks past me on the way to the back yard, her back brown jewels.

 

May 6, 2024

Painting, lying about watching the rain come down. I try to feel with my plants my toes in the delicious water. My turkey hen visits on her own wild lone. 

 

May 5, 2024

Sunday morning Bach from the radio downstairs.

John Ireland tackled at service. Memories of singing it first at the Second English Lutheran on Charles Street in Baltimore.

The Terrible Anniversary

 May 4, 2024

The terrible anniversary. 

After an hour or so of concentrated excavation, I finished clearing this side of the fence up to the hart’s tongue ferns. What to plant there to keep the weeds from coming back I don’t know, but something will occur. Almost as I finished the rains came. I poured wine and sat on the front porch blessing God for the beauty of my garden. In all our collaborations, that is the only one that has come to any end I recognize. 

Fledgling towhee on the fence, all fluffy and disarrayed, unlike her elegant mother.

 May 3, 2024

Listening to M’s interview of me for his podcast. I’m shockingly eloquent. I expected more hem-hawing. Maybe he edited it out. The photo makes me look ancient as the hills, but not in a bad way. 

Repeated messages from H, who wants to talk, who wants me to interview him to write his life story. Find out at rehearsal last night that he attempted suicide and is hospitalized in some fashion. Or so the gossip was. Unexpected unanimity of distaste for him. One expected some sympathy. You transgress too often and the wells of mortal mercy run dry. 

Had my first assignment as a docent at the Cathedral. Surprisingly draining, all that cordiality. Another surprise was the sheer number of people wanting a tour, most of them quite religious and able to quote the passages referenced in the windows. One little girl, Nina, climbed the pulpit and recited First John from memory, then revealed she could to it in Latin as well, noting that “in” is the same in both languages. Her mother was intense and kind and very religious and seemed to take a liking to me. They were from New Braunfels. I was told several times that I too could travel and take in local sights when I retire. People from Chicago, Colorado, and several places in Florida. When I go to a historic building I’m just as happy to be left alone with my thoughts, so I thought we were a little aggressive in our approach. 

Fatboi and Giselle

 May 2, 2024

Trip to the Toyota place to get everything installed correctly that I had done amiss. Dashboard now like the panel of a starship. 

Good poems by the riverbank, too hot in the sun, too cool in the shade, the way it is perfect. 

The news in the garden is that Fatboi has a friend. Giselle is smaller, redder than he is, and less tense in my presence. They are sizeable animals, and it’s a little alarming to see them grazing out there like squat, dark sheep. 

 

May 1, 2024

Glorious May Day. Arrowed out to Jesse Israel and bought white swamp hibiscus and butterfly weed. Planted them. Planted a second bay tree in the back. Planted the ironweed seeds D sent from Hiram. 

Rehearsal

 

April 30, 2024

Soft rain, though were are threatened with thunderstorms. Finished the main labor of the garden just in time. 

In Hendersonville last night for a run-through of A God in the Waters. A week before production it’s watchable as a production, the lines in some cases quite solid and in all cases thoughtfully delivered. I sat rapt, as though I’d never heard the words before. Learned something new from every speech as it was uttered. The time flew, as is not typically my experience while attending a rehearsal of one of my works. At some point I realized that with a script that interests me (here I’m being a little self-congratulatory) what I prize is interpretation that puts nothing between me and the words: a transparent voice, an intelligence modest enough and bold enough to learn as it speaks. Not an display in itself, but a conduit. All things depend on the clear delivery of a clear truth. I got that, as I never have this early in the rehearsal process. Sometimes it happens closing night. Always when I consider the sheer labor that goes into presenting one of my works, the hours of memorization and rehearsal, the gathering of props, the assembling of sets, the fussing, huge and minute, over every detail, I am speechless with gratitude.  That I have done this for other authors is all that tempers the mortification. 

Crisis in that our stage manager’s landlord had been cruel to her. Difficult to know what to do at this point. Wish I had an extra house. 

My anticipated entrance onto I-26 was closed, as was Hendersonville Road going north, so the only thing I could do was ride I-26 to the Bat Cave exit, turn around and retrace my steps west. I called down curses on the head of anyone having to do with that endless shit-show of a road. 

 

April 29, 2024

In terms of square footage seeded and planted, likely the most productive gardening day for me ever. Cosmos, Mexican sunflowers, 4 o’clocks sown in vast blankets on the street side. Planting of lavender, pulmonaria, dianthus, and shady blue flowers I forgot the name of. Copious watering.