Recollections

 October 10, 2026

Hiss of wind-driven rain on the roof. Helene-like, but not, so far, Helene. 

Made peanut butter pie for DJ’s movie party.

Mostly, so far, have slept through the dreary weather. The dreams have been almost exclusively of getting my script in order for some gigantic theater production. The scenes are vividly color-coded, but somehow are too stiff and big for me to put in order.  

A poet named K writes to me, sends a book, reminding me of a reading I did at a bookstore in Ithaca forty years ago. We evidently made a connection, which she remembers, alas, in greater detail than I. She has read The Glacier’s Daughters “hundreds of times.”  I examine my journals for the event, and, incredibly, it is there. I say “Incredibly” because I’d begun keeping my journal on the computer only that year, 1985; otherwise, I would have to go to the riverside and comb through hard copy in infinite notebooks, which I would not have done. The reading was evidently part of my last journey to Upstate New York., where I had a reading at SU as well as Ithaca:

October 18, 1985 

 In Syracuse I went to the record store that was my favorite, and I bought the Incredible String Band album that I now play to the dark of the mountain. "May the long time sun shine upon you, all love surround you, and the pure light within you guide your way on," they sing as the merry people sang at Koinonia at parting, and will never sing again. Nor did they sing it to me, as I crept away in the secret of night, defeated. 

 I walked at night in Syracuse, the streets, the bitter cold I remember, the fresh of the wind hurrying my steps. So intimately was my life tied to darkness and solitariness that I felt the way, recalling each reflection from each building window, each rainpool, the duration of each traffic light, the perils and mysteries of each corner. Night with her shivering arms welcomed me. She remembered my walking as perhaps no one has walked since, in such longing, in such passionate uncertainty. I walked Catherine Street looking into the windows I looked in before. I walked James Street where the one-sex couples sit on their stoops, too old and satisfied to cruise the passer-by. I stood in the shadow cast by the Church of the Saviour, my hand against his red wall as though to feel the vibrations of ghosts, weeping, reciting the names of my lost, all those I met in that holy building and, unless the world changes, I shall never see again. Voices, candlelight, incense, the enclosing of God's arms. I cried, not knowing whether in gratitude or bereavement. It rained a cold winter rain. I walked downtown, past Brancas, the little bars and restaurants that change hands and names each season. On Water Street Cissy's was gone. On the next block, Ryan's was gone. Ghosts, faces, music. I ran to the Bunkhouse. It at least was as I remember, the old queens the same, the sweet young things different and yet recognizable. Dickie still guards the door. I wanted to say, 

"Don't you remember me? Don't you remember wearing this leather jacket to keep it safe while I danced? Don't you remember kissing me and calling me 'baby' when I ran past you into the starlight? Don't you remember begging me to come to your room, opening my hand into a palm into which you dropped your address night after night?" 

Dickie has grown fat, a face like a toad's. But the same sweet bray of laughter, the harmless soul lost in that smoky dark forever. Five men in that room had courted me. Did none remember? Why should I remember them and they not me? Or was that revenge for my not loving them? 

I ran up Genesee, University, through the Rose Garden where yet bloomed a few roses.  I ran in pitch dark to the edge of Glamu to look at my old house on Madison Street, just as it was. I felt my way. The nightlit shadow of every tree was familiar, dear, wounding. I turned and climbed the hill of the water tower. As I looked out over the city over which the sky was a whirling wheel, a charybdis of energy released and never welcomed home. \I am still that man!\I heard my heart exclaim. \It is not accomplished!\I heard my brain answer, recognizing that all that energy must still whirl and quiver, having achieved not one thing it wanted. The strange thing is that the emotion, that feeling of incompleteness, was as sweet as it was bitter.

I return to find a whirlwind above the lights, the swirl of abandoned energy, the patient remonstrance of things left halfdone. 

Why did I leave? I hoped for more.

 *

 Bitter rainy morning. I lost me in the press of Marshall Street, amazed at how little of my nostalgia was associated with the university, how much with the neighborhoods downtown and eastward. As I must have been before, I was dazzled by the beauty of the students, swarthy, dramatic, chiseled and vibrant. Asheville has blond and outright black, but nothing like that bronze and well-fed splendor of flesh. 

The reading itself was an artistic mediocrity. A room mix-up found us in a lounge in Maxwell, which was also a sort of office-supply storage area. Secretaries banged in at out every few minutes, looking disgruntled that they should have to regard us for an instant in their domain. J sat in the front row beaming until about midway. Then she took up her giant handbag and dragged as loudly as possible toward the door. I tried not to notice, but her exit was both noisy and incredibly protracted. A few seconds after it had finally come to an end, a secretary dashed in with that satisfied look of someone about to interrupt a frippery unaccountably important to others. She said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but someone has collapsed in the hall. Are there any loose pillows on the chairs in here?" How happy she was, bustling about, secure in the knowledge that what\she\had to say was more important than mere poetry. Word came that the collapsed person was J. The J of old came back to me. I understood. She always passes out or throws up at a reading; not herself a writer, she participates in the one way she can. I forgave her. I was glad, in fact, for that sliver of old times to be back again. 

I read blandly, hastily, embarrassed at all the interruptions, as though the whole world were looking at its watch, bursting for this incongruous moment to be over. 

Drove south with the sickle moon riding the clouds before me. 

The reading at McBooks in Ithaca was, on the other hand, triumphant. Perhaps the best reading I have ever done. I heard my voice find new nuances, fresh music in the words, as it does when I act on the stage. Very intimate setting, very select group. I was happy. Kit was there to buy me beers and tell pointless anecdotes about our past. He waited several hours in a bar beside the bookstore, so he'd be able to show me the way. Cecil and Katherine, whom I had not seen in years but think of often. FM. More of the old crew than in Syracuse. Sweet and attentive strangers sitting with their backs against the bookshelves. 

Fred said, "They talk of you often in Syracuse. Everyone says, 'heard from Hopes?'" 

Fred said, "When I get discouraged I think of you, how everything came to you in that one magic week." I wouldn't tarnish the moment by saying, "and has ceased ever since."  

Scurrying down the Commons toward my car, I caught the eye of a boy who leaned against a light pole. He had that swarthy Mediterranean beauty I had admired all day, bold and tentative at once, like a young stag. I smiled, in recognition of his beauty and how cold he must have been with only his green army jacket. But he misinterpreted, and followed me. Another time, another place. . . but I was cold and tired. I turned my back and strode straight out of his life back into my own.  

Drove home, slept over Syracuse, left yesterday morning, spent the night among time-wasting college students in Harrisonville Virginia, returned today after noon, with all that grief and hope and longing shrunk to a head-gem. I take it out and turn it in the light. 

* 

 The furnace kicked on of its own, the house having reached the limit I set for it in May. I’m wondering if the turkeys are sheltering in my garden, where they would be safe.

Made a peanut butter pie for DJ’s movie night. 

 October 9, 2026

Damaris Peters is dead. 

Spent the morning digging and planting under a dull silver sky. Into the ground went daylilies, yellow trillium, great white trillium, grape hyacinth, jack-in-the-pulpit. Then I made a huge vegetable stew without washing my hands. Live dangerously! 

Turkeys visited twice, or maybe it was two different bands.

Threats of hurricane up from the Gulf. I don’t know about others, but I’m enraged by the news, not having gotten Helene fully under my belt. One flickering light, one interruption of reception will be intolerable. Just giving it fair warning. 

Returned to High 5 by the river after its second restoration in two years. Flood and fire. A happy red dog presented himself to be petted. Surrounded by young mothers and their toddlers. All the children have last names for fist names– Kennedy, Cooper, etc--

Avlgmc rehearsal last night amusing, discouraging, the music bad and calling for nothing more than an indifferent interpretation, yet everybody churning merrily along. The composer of some and arranger of many sits beside me, so I may not cry out. It’s not that he isn’t good, but it’s a stopgap, so we can do numbers off the radio which nobody has had the bad taste yet to arrange for choirs. It’s OK. It’s all right. I can advocate for greatness only so long before I spoil everybody’s fun. 

Writing and painting alternate in their own time, and I am generally incapable of affecting the alternation very much. 

The Basswood Tree

October 5, 2026

Reading MJ’s poems while a bay-breasted warbler gleaned the blue hydrangea outside the bedroom window. 

White rose in bloom. 

Received a letter from HR, who is whatever you call the granddaughter of my Aunt Alice–first cousin once removed? I don’t know. She lives in Brownsville. She found a copy of The Basswood Tree that I sent to grandma in 1978, and located me through that. 

 

 October 3, 2026

Day spent at AVLGMC “retreat.” It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it– I did– but that I come away with hollowness in my soul. Out of 500 years of repertoire we pick those niggling little tunes. Forgettable. Juvenile, and not in a good way. Only a few are actually awful, but only a few are “right” in any way I recognize either musically or for the season our concert is meant to honor. We were far more sophisticated five years ago. The fact that we are larger now is meant somehow to obscure that. Nothing but surface, no imperative but lack of offense. It is more heartbreaking than I expected it to be. 

Feral

 October 2, 2026

Mrs Jarvis is dead. 

Digging, mulching, planting of new iris, dividing of old iris, planting of alium. 

Sat and watched my feral cat at the pond’s edge. He and I both watched the greeny-gold fall warblers at their play. His coloring blended so well with the weeds that I wouldn’t have seen him except for the time his paw touched the water. My little world needed him, needed a hungry and silent predator to keep everything on its toes.  

 September 30, 2026

Semi-supernatural visitation of bears. Worked hard cleaning the iris bed for new planting. Went indoors for an hour, came out to find the pond pump pulled to pieces and the plants pulled out of one of the water gardens. The queer part is that the perpetrator–certainly a bear– did not appear on security cameras, though I, picking up the mess in the same place, did. Bears returned at about 3:30 AM, at which time they grabbed bags of fertilizer out of the plastic box under the porch stairs, replaced the lid on the box, and, finding the contents nasty, left the bags scattered across the lawn. 

Much gardening and mulching once I’d gotten the damage seen to. 

AVLGMC rehearsal, though itself amusing, confirmed my suspicion that our music selection would once again be juvenile. Lots of talent, lots of sound wasted. The visuals for our ad campaign are bad almost to the point of parody. Can’t support us, though I aid and abet with my continued presence. 

 September 29, 2026

Slept nine hours last night. May be accounted for by having worked out at the Y and done PT with Nathaniel, who is expecting a boy baby. I do feel better for having begun again to use my body, though I’m not sure the balance issues are subsiding. Nathaniel thinks so. Typing “Nathaniel” helps me understand that the names I pick for my stories have something to do with typing the least I can.

Phone interview with a reporter at Mountain Xpress about the time Ruth Bader Ginsbear invaded my kitchen. 

Anniversary

 September 28, 2026

Two years ago at this hour I had beaten a path to I-26, fleeing to Charleston to get away from the aftermath of Hurricane Helene. Yesterday was the official second anniversary, and there was a service at the Cathedral to commemorate it and to initiate our capital campaign. Mayor Mannheimer spoke, as did candidate Jamie Ager, who’s the cutest big old country boy. I remember buying produce from him at various farmers’ markets. He gave me a long discourse on a plant I was considering for my garden; it might have been rhubarb. Beside me sat a boy of about 11, of radiant beauty. His name was Jay. His mother had clearly let him dress the way he pleased, and he was decked out in soccer shorts, a T-shirt with many slogans, a ball cap, and a heavily jeweled necklace. It struck me that an 11 year-old boy, given his own head, will dress like a barbarian chieftain. Or the other way around. A number of people– two in particular I spoke with at the reception yesterday– hate the Dean with unexpected ferocity. They spoke with me in conspiratorial tones, expecting that I shared their perspective, which I might if I understood the issues. I try to rein in my own judgments, to discover that the judgments of others are at least as ferocious–and far quicker–than mine. My lack of attention can pass for lovingkindness, for which I am grateful. 

Pride

September 26, 2026

Autumn has come. Windows closed. New LL Bean comforter taken out of the box and used the first time. 

A dynamo at the keyboard. I made Dinosaur Movie usable and got a good start on Recipes.

Planning new features for the garden, now that the heat is off enough to move. Ordered fall bulbs

My appointment with L’s book club, which I assumed would be one of the worst afternoons of my life, was really rather pleasant. Eight or nine old ladies and me. It’s a book club where you don’t read books but you do meet authors, so I blabbed on about myself until the time was filled. They were all taking about Gresham, so I imagine they’ll be baffled by the books I left behind. “We were founded in 1895" said one them proudly. Before I thought I said, “Oh? Are any of you original members?” They seemed to take it in good spirit. 

Blue Ridge Pride at City-County Plaza this noon. Deliberately missed the last rehearsal, so doing those old chestnuts again won’t be as sickening as they would have been. Fussing about musical details in this case is funny, because nobody hears a note we sing. Just smile and look like you’re having a good time. One might actually be having a good time. 

Pride went well. The weather perfect. . . I in spectacular voice . . . .

 

Y

 September 22, 2026

Inspired by PT, rose in the dark and went to the Y for the first time in at least two years. All the personnel was different, but the selection of sweaty beefcake was as remembered. Did a satisfying workout, stopped at Starbucks, watched life on still-dark Charlotte Street, cleaned out the pool aerator before dawn. Which is right about now. I have been wandering in a vale of shadow which I’d called “age” but which was really a kind of fatal habit. 

Forbearance

 September 21, 2026

Realized, while watching my transparent electric tea kettle come to a boil,  that Heisenberg was anticipated by Old Wives with their proverb, “Watched pots never boil.”

The favorite performer of the receptionist at Nathaniel’s PT emporium is Phil Collins. “Rock Me Amadeus” was the number 1 song on the day she was born. I shared that “Goodnight Irene” was the number 1 hit on the day I was born. She was too polite to say she’d never heard of it. My therapist for the day is from Greenville, and his parents are important musicians there and at Furman.

I’m fond of claiming forbearance as a personal virtue, half in fun, as everybody assumes I’m essentially without boundaries. I realize that forbearance is also one of my faults, as I have stopped short-- for reasons of politeness or proportion, I hope– from taking full course some issues that needed to have been taken full course. God’s justice is that these still haunt me. The recent little brush-up with AVLGMC brought this to mind. I thought I was the lonely complainant. Turns out I was one of many, and clement, even feeble, in the intensity of my complaint. That in itself is well. What is not well is that I may have shirked responsibility. 

Lunch with JP. The AS capital campaign committee thinks $15000 is right from me. I can do that. 

Recipes

September 20, 2026

Did the scriptures and prayers at the 8 AM service, there being no other volunteers. I realize I’m indifferent to my hour of arising. Old Testament verses were about how God sent quail and wafers when the Israelites complained. Very odd, very specific. New Testament about how everybody gets paid the same whenever they came to work. That God is undeniably a Communist is a truth lost on most American Christians. 

My typing would be, without exacting proofing, incomprehensible. I misspelled “the” twice in this one paragraph. 

Began a play about recipes. 

 

Catbird Cantos

 September 19, 2026

New exercises in PT. Some are fine, but I literally cannot walk a straight line putting one foot directly before the other without falling down. I’m required to do so so infrequently I hadn’t noticed. I suppose if I were caught on a narrow mountain ledge it would be vital. 

Fall warblers in my silver maple. 

Up at 4 AM. It’s probably because I went to bed hours early, but it’s sweet to imagine some Romantic angst.

Wake with bitter prayers on my tongue. The only shame holding them back is knowledge of the millions who have it worse. Betrayal rains from the sky, and yet we worship. Futility sucks at our feet, yet we keep struggling forward. There should be a church of how much hatred God has earned. 

Anyway. . . 

It is but 7:30 AM and I’ve already put together The Catbird Cantos.

 September 17, 2026

L invited me to lunch at Deerfield because she so wanted more of my company, and because she wanted to explain what I’d be doing at her book club next week. When I arrived she did not eat lunch, but watched me eat, and was clearly frantic to be somewhere else, receiving calls every few moments to hurry her along. In addition, she herself will not be at the meeting she invited me to as Literary Guest, but I’ll be tapping on the door of a stranger to do my little act before strangers. She led me to the distant apartment, which I will likely never find on my own. What are people thinking? What am I thinking? Anyone else on this planet would have said, “Naw, let’s reschedule.” 

 September 16, 2026

Went to physical therapy yesterday, handsome Nathaniel making me race around doing this and that, giving me a series of daily exercises, which I have already done for the day. I’m not as unbalanced as I thought, but the slowness of my pace shocks even a professional. 

Symphony rehearsal, Carmina Burana, which I remember with pleasure from doing it in 1973 in Baltimore. I had several solos then. Doubt that I will now. While failing in my classwork, I was something of a vocal phenomenon in Baltimore. I suppose basses were in short supply. Last night I noted something perpetually true of me, that I try to avoid conversation-- so how was your week? Writing anything now?–much preferring communion with my own thoughts. Whether this is the cause of my isolation or a result of it cannot now be determined. 

Annie Dillard is dead.

 September 15, 2026

Woke before light with unusual energy. All towels and bath stuff went into the laundry. Some of it, I think, hasn’t been through the wash since I moved here. Shocking quantities of bleach.

Frederick

 September 14, 2026

Hot day of the endless summer. I really don’t mind if it’s endless. The sweatshirt I bought to wear to choir camp was far too warm. 

Unexpected and thorough remake of The Last Poet. Its problems were so easy to fix I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Often when I return to a piece I realize I simply gave up, imagining it was “good enough” since nobody was ever going to see it anyhow. In some ways The Last Poet is my best, at least the “best” piece that people are likely to understand the first time through. Were they ever to see it. 

I am Charlie Brown and God is Lucy. 

Enormous, enduring dreams. Getting up from the bed to use the bathroom is like doing so in a cinema. Last night at one point I was a Hollywood dancer.

HART announces its season. It too abandons serious theater. 

I have a new grand-nephew, Frederick. Not informed, but read of it on Facebook. 

Lake Logan

 September 13, 2026

Weekend spent at Lake Logan at choir camp. Hated it the least in memory. A red-shouldered hawk awaited me when I pulled into the lodge parking. In remarkably good voice. My frozen dozens of Christmas cookies finally found consummation. Arrived home and slept four hours. 

I experiment with PT on Tuesday, which is well, for I could barely make it up the modest slope between the dining hall and the lodge. 

 September 11, 2026

Terrible anniversary. Everybody of a certain age has something to remember.

Revision of plays that will never be done, better and better, pearls lying in a sealed casket. 

Can’t write a sentence without making two typos

AVLGMC last night. Labor over music not worth laboring over, everything chosen with an eye to mediocrity. Calculated mediocrity is even worse than organic mediocrity. Thomas leaves the rehearsal room for a while, then mopes in the car about not getting any of the solos. I agree it is absurd. He would have been the best, but something else was in the mix. Best doesn’t matter anymore. When do I decide what to do about it? 

Great joy last night when two screech owls came to my trees, gurgling and ghosting in the darkness. I loved them utterly. 

 September 8, 2026

Roaring of machinery. My vegetation keeps me from seeing if I’m blocked in or not. 

Spotted one of my feral kittens, them I watched just after birth playing on the porch, with the ugly brindled fur. I see one or the other of them from time to time down at the tool shed, where they might abide. This one was unkempt and horribly skinny. I explained to him if he’d just let me pick him up I’d feed him and care for him and he could sleep on a pillow on my bed, but he was not persuaded. Certain souls run from all comforts. They must have their reasons. 

Symphony Chorus, Carmina Burana. I think I had fun.

 September 7, 2026

Lovely Labor Day, cool, the sky an agate of grayish variety.

Finished They’ll Need to Know What River It Is after almost finishing it last night. 

The aerator will have to be cleaned every three days. That’s still better than not knowing what to do and not knowing how to do it. 

Choir returned to St George’s Sunday. 

Stupendous volley of fireworks last night. I’ve never heard the like, and couldn’t decide just what they were. They must have been quite close. By the time I got my shoes on to explore, it was over. I keep to myself the fact that I rather like them. 

The long-awaited AS Window book came out, and is a major disappointment. Almost every one of the photographs is bad–what is a photo book without the photographs?–reproduced in a way that flattens and pales all features and makes everything look grossly overexposed. It may be the fault of trying to economize on paper stock. The text is limp where it might have sparkled. I offered a dozen times to help. The lay-out looks like somebody’s uncritiqued first draft. Even the fonts are weird. The hope to use this is a fund-raising device is not going to be fulfilled. The unexpected shadow is that D was the energy behind this project, and how could he be feeling after years of preparation? The next part is that D’s son drowned in Lake Michigan two days ago. You leave all the threads on the ground, hoping they find a way to untangle themselves. 

September 3, 2026

Exhausting, extended head wave. I’d hate to be one of my plants, standing in the sun all day.

Lunch with DJ. After 15 years he’ll be missing his week at the beach.

AVLGMC rehearsal. B has found a process to insure mediocrity for the foreseeable future. The part of me that recognizes that this is no longer my concern needs to convince the rest. 

Nearly hit a bear on the street while driving Thomas home. They are very black. We need to furnish them with those reflecting vests repairmen wear. In the car Thomas discussed my being Virgo, saying it was exactly right for me, being so grounded and all. I do in fact feel grounded, rooted, founded. Trying not to let that become “immovable.”  

 September 2, 2026

Contributed to Jamie Ager’s campaign. Used to buy his produce at the Farmers’ Market

Birthday yesterday. Went to the Fresh Market for my free slice of cake. Early (before 9 and the slamming down of the Great Heat) it was weeding and dead-heading, whereby I’m covered with little cuts. Looks like I warred with a gang of cats. 

Symphony Chorus is now gigantic, and has a new director, J, who’s also taken the reins at First Baptist. Different in many ways from K, similar in other ways. It’s good to get a fresh start with a new conductor. J takes things less personally. Sat beside tall John who is from Eau Claire, WI, and worked in IT, but left his job to explore new options. Good voice, minimal reading skills. That’s why he has me. R, our president, looked incredibly sexy with his new hair cut. Does no one notice this but me? 

Stock portfolio is today half as much in the red as it was a while ago.

 August 30, 2026

Day of many chores accomplished, but that is little to write about. Trump cuts down the Japanese cherry trees around the Mall in DC in order to expand a golf course. His depravity– and hence the depravity he valorizes in others– is difficult to comprehend. Lazy in all other things, Trump is energetic and concentrated when it comes to cruelty, maybe because he can get others to act on his behalf. His central delight is destroying what is precious to others, there being nothing precious to him beyond his own corrupt flesh and devouring greed. MAGA cannot help following his lead. He has somehow made actions they would otherwise deem horrifying palpable, even advanced. When he fails, his failure must be final and all-embracing, every Trumpian thought and remnant rooted out. Every ICE officer, every government functionary must face the charge and explain why they should not be removed from public life. Toleration will not work here. The evil is too great. The cruelty is too gleeful. The merciless are the one group who deserve no mercy. 

Pure

 August 29, 2026

A day of the most miraculous labor and inspiration, the words flowing out like drops from a fountain. I have days like this, nights like this from time to time, rare, but in a long life, enough to come to know and understand. My fingers on the keyboard could do no wrong. I remember this from when I began. I do know that, as far as the quality of my own life, nothing will come of it, and yet I commit, I go forward, as aside from all consequence, it is beautiful. I am ot deceived, Lord. I know that you will negate all consequence. What does it say of me that that does not matter? For tonight I am pure.

 August 28, 2026

The King of Norway is dead. Glad he lived to see his country so beloved at the World Cup. 

AVLGMC rehearsal last night. Huge now. One of the new recruits is in fact a woman, who turns out to have been my student my first years at UNCA and to have adored me, so that is a corner turned with unexpected ease. She showed me a photo of her quite beautiful son, who didn’t exist when we had class together Final triumph of bad music now that no one remains to fight for the Muse. 

Disproportional fit of rage yesterday when the pond aerator didn’t work AGAIN. I’m glad there’s space between me and the next dwellings, for the explosion was loud and sustained. The guy at Jesse Israel asked me if I had cleaned the filters, and I had not. I came home certain that cleaning the filters would not help, but I cleaned then, and the water geysered out ten inches above the pipe, singing like a river. Pond is more aerated than it’s ever been. Me considering why I think every glitch is a sign of the gods arrayed against me. 

 August 26, 2026

TV last night was largely Dolly Parton eulogies, very much of a piece, which I suppose is the mark of a coherent life. The alternative was a documentary about Mary Oliver on PBS, which I watched in small horror as long as I could stand it. Couldn’t keep out of my mind the litany, “I’m ten times better– where’s my documentary?”

 August 25, 2026

Dolly Parton is dead.

Lunch with SS. We’re gloomy about our craft and our futures, and yet plunge ahead. His stamina exceeds mine as the heavens are high above the earth. 

Finished An Age of Silver one hour before lunch.

I am a bard with no tribe to sing the songs to.

I am a storyteller with no one listening. 

I have perfected an art that no one needed. 

It was impossible to see this coming–or, if it was possible, I was too blinded by love.

I look back and find no place where I might have taken another path, where I might have turned around. 

One cannot even cry out, as infinite lives are laid to infinitely greater waste. 

Sweet moon in the south, rounding the corners of the garden. 

 August 24, 2026

Back to the de-vining. The weather was so perfect I didn’t even break a sweat. 

Results of AVLGMC auditions posted. If I can judge from names we have accepted two women. I asked myself if I really care, and I really don’t. My conviction that not everything should be diluted and made like every other thing is intellectual and not, perhaps, essential. I cannot uphold everything, or perhaps anything at all.  This should be, and may be some day, a relief. 

Anniversary

 August 23, 2026

Sixty years ago tonight I sat at my desk in my little green room in Akron and wrote my first poem. I was so happy. The walls and roof opened around me, and nothing encased me but the immensity of the world. I was so sad, because the occasion of the poem was sad, but I was also so happy. Wrote out the poem this morning to be sure that I remembered it.

Tackled the great billows of morning glory that took over most of the gardens. In terms of the sheer volume of plant material uprooted, this was the among the most productive days ever in the garden. I was a botano-archaeologist, uncovering lost cultures buried under pretty but consuming vines. 

Reminiscences

 August 22, 2026

DH called All Souls trying to find me. I called him back, and we had our first conversation in twenty years. I learned things about Broadway Arts and the green door that had been unclear before– how it was founded, for one, and why it was closed when it was closed. I thought maybe B and D had been insulted by the local arts community, but it was simply that building inspections got morestringent, and they had either to spend a lot of money on things like exits and fire escapes or get out of town. They got out of town. D went on quite a lot about what an inspiration I was– “a flame of creativity lighting the whole space.” He cried with emotion near the end, saying he missed me and my “goodness” so much. I never know how to react. When people express hatred of me I am astonished; when people express adoration of me, I am astonished, in each case tongue-tied. D was always a practical figure behind B’s flights of invention. What I remember most is his extreme physical beauty, which I suppose ought not to be mentioned now. I spend so much time dwelling on awful things I said and situations I must have made worse that to hear something good– coming in from outside-- is salvation. 

Reading an article on Hannah Arendt called to mind the week I spent with Alfred Kazin. He was at UNCA as a guest scholar, back when UNCA still saw itself as an institution of higher learning. What a horrible man. The presentations he gave here were about how awful other people were, and when he learned I had written on Pound, I was expected to justify the whole history of anti-Semitism. I drove him when we went off-campus, and he moaned, “David. . . David. . . you drive too fast!” Our beautiful female students prepared a lovely picnic to eat with him on the Parkway, which he refused because of the dirt of open places. I adored his books before I met him. I suppose part of his editors’ task was to take out the really nasty parts so anyone would read him at all. He did want a drink at the Brass Rail, as it was then. We went in and had a beer among the red-necks, Alfred Kazin and I. He seemed to be quite comfortable. That should be recorded somewhere. 

Michael Yeats came the same year, I think, invited by Poly Sci because of World Government rather than by Literature. Opposite of Kazin, kind and humane, and very, very large. Someone asked about his mother’s automatic writing in a snarky tone, and his response was, “Either my mother did automatic writing or she was lying, and my mother never, never lied.” That put an end to that. 

 August 21, 2026

Rain at dawn, the gentle clucking of turkeys in the yard under the patter of rain. Turkeys perch on the back porch, and when I round the corner I see large brown creatures that I cannot at first identify. It can be quite startling. 

MAY ALL CREATURES EVERYWHERE BE HAPPY AND FREE.

weeds

 

August 20, 2026

Day after day, whole weeks too hot for gardening. Rains come anyway, and the weeds in my garden are bold and tall. I don’t mind that. They don’t acknowledge the difference between themselves and the flowers, and for the moment neither do I. 

GZ is dead. 

Did, after all weed some. You notice sometimes how much effort produces so little result, and other times how little effort produces so much. 

River Arts

 August 18, 2026

Drove to the River Arts District, and made myself enter the building that used to be the Magnetic Theater. It looks great, actually, a far less gloomy use of the space. Even the girls who were working the desks didn’t know what had been there before. Continued to see L in his cubbyhole by the Pennycup. We talked about old times in the Phil Mechanic, and I learned what happened after I left, including the fact that my studio, with thousands of dollars worth of furnishings and supplies, had been “picked to the bone” by students and area artists. This is exactly the outcome I had prayed for but was too ill to effect. Two of L’s children have switched gender. The eldest, who hated dresses and girly things, is now happy as a boy, and the youngest has determined, apparently with some success, to avoid all gender limitations.  I don’t believe these options were open to us in our youth. 

Dr. Who

 August 16, 2026

Baroque dreams continue. One I remember from last night was very Wiccan– Dr Who (Tom Baker) had come to town do some sort of exorcism. He walked down the village street with two ghostly trees moving along with him, flanking him on either side. Figures, some of them quite grotesque, came out of doors and side streets to be reconciled with him, sometimes by an embrace, sometimes with an incantation. At first I seemed to be an onlooker, then I was part of his party, helping to gather the figures in. I found his sister hiding in the shadows, avoiding him. I kept saying, “utter the iron spell!” This seemed vital.  I think she was about to when I awoke. 

Waking, I thought “If I died, how long would I lie here before anyone found me?” Until the stink got to the street, it might be forever. The cleaning ladies would find the door locked and walk away.

 August 15, 2026

Revising An Age of Silver, almost stupid with joy.

Tony had messed with my aerator, making it sputter like an open vein. Inarticulate with rage. 

Flora gave me fairest flowers.

Gawdawful art work to accompany our disappointing Holiday “theme.” Arid to the point of unintended humor. B’s boyfriend again at work. Part of it is on me, as, I imagine, as my departure from the planning committee leaves no voice of correction. Unfortunately, when they fall, so do we, having countenanced it, in my case for the sake of tranquility. In my case it is almost always for the sake of tranquility. This is a fault I couldn’t recognize until it had been repeatedly manifest. Maybe I made good on all that tranquility. Maybe not. Maybe some of it.

 August 14, 2026

A blessing allowed me to return to writing this morning. After the flurry of composition and revision after the Elbe cruise, I was empty. I didn’t want to set anything else down. I was angry because all I have written has come to nothing. I think, all in all, my anger was clement, feeble compared to what God had earned of me. But today I rose early and wrote on the cruise play and then a poem that gushed out of me like old times. Glad to be back. Do not imagine, Father, that you have escaped my fury. You have glanced it aside for the moment, as you do. 

Alarms

 August 13, 2026

Slightly sick from lunch. Rye Knot burger didn’t settle well.

Dramatic night last night. I was writing when the “ping” of the house monitors when their battery gets low began to go off. The carbon monoxide monitor by the stairs is the usual suspect, so I began poking at that, recalling in times past there was a button I could push that shut it up without any change to the batteries, which I could never find. Didn’t avail– ping. . . ping. . . ping. .  so I went downstairs for the baseball bat I got to fend off bears, came back up and smashed it to pieces, then pulled it off its wires and hurled it into the trash bin. In a moment I realized it had not been the culprit. Brought the stepladder upstairs, found another monitor (smoke? Ozone? I don’t know) in the ceiling, mounted the ladder, pulled on the object, which was so shoddily installed it same off in my hand. That too went into the trash bin. THEN the security panel began beeping because it had lost contact with the monitors upstairs. Unplugged that until morning, when I phoned the Vivint people and told them to turn off the fucking alarms. They knew better than to challenge me. For an hour it was like a Laurel & Hardy movie. I’m preparing for old age, when I won’t be able to climb a ladder or swing a bat. 

Haircut

 August 12, 2026

Read this on a community bulletin board online: “Use to stay at 84 Duckett Road, people living at this address is thefts. They stole my truck battery, Jack handle, tools, generator just to name a few things. I may be homeless but keep your hands off of things that don't belong to you.” These are sad times.

Hair cut by a tattooed lesbian from Johnston City whose favorite pastime is playing music with her fiancee. I asked her, “So, did you wake up one morning and realize you wanted to be a barber?” and she said. “That almost exactly how it happened.” English, of course, was her worst subject in school. 

 August 11, 2026

JS’s birthday. We were friends in junior high, until he moved to Kent. I wonder if he remembers me at all. He was the only friend I had then who was as smart as I. I wouldn’t have put it that way, but I noticed it. He tried to plant radishes in a strip of land at the end of his driveway, the only place in his yard where there was sun. They grew. 

 August 10, 2026

Whatever I thought I was doing for Taliesin, his mother did not approve: 

Hello-

Taliesin shared the information with me that you gave him.  We have always been very open with him about Jason.  Please do not share any more information with him, it is extremely  inappropriate.  We have moved on from that time and have a very happy life.  I would prefer if you see him at work to keep it professional and avoid speaking to him.

Not the reception I expected, but the one that was. I wonder what she means by “inappropriate.”  I perceived the universe put together an unusual number of “coincidences” to make it happen. Still, no more until I hear from the universe again . . . 

Flu shot and tetanus booster today. One or the other of them made me mildly sick through the afternoon. 

Spectrum says I watched 102 hours of TV last month. That is shocking. 

Today marks a week without alcohol. It was neither very hard nor very rewarding. The downside is that I miss the emphasis drinking gave to the end of the day. I enjoyed tottering to bed half conscious. The upside sensible now is a hugely expanded tapestry of dreams, seemingly all night, one sewn into the hem of the other.

My Ohio massage therapist friend S wants to do an audiobook of Wyona.. I say yes and get in contact with Red Hen. This is what he writes: And if nothing else, thank you for taking the leap of faith in messaging me back! I have pretty much been shaking everywhere. I’ve gone the last 24 hours thinking even of the prospect of it. When I wrote my review of the book on StoryGraph several months ago, I predicted that it would be my number one book of the year. And that is absolutely holding true. Cheers to a masterpiece!

August 9, 2026

A Facebook message. So many hoaxes I can’t believe I’m responding to this one, but I am: 

Hello! I hope that you see this message! I did try to find more formal ways to contact you, but came up short. 

Earlier this year I read The Falls of the Wyona, and I just wanted to say that it was masterful writing. I know you don’t need someone like me to tell you that, but I just needed to say it.

I have never in my life, loved and hated something so much so simultaneously. I felt love for every character, and yet I was so angry and sad for them. In all my years as a reader, I have never finished a book and immediately had to walk out of the coffee shop so I could cry in my car. I picked this book up on a whim in a local bookstore, and I am so glad I did. I can confidently say that it is my favorite book of the year, and in my 5 or favorite books of all time. 

I wanted to write to you for another reason, as well. In the last month I decided to try my hand (or voice, rather) at audiobook narration. I auditioned for a few, and I am not working on my first project! 

This for me wondering if Wyona had an audiobook, and I see that it does not. I was wondering if you would ever entertain an audiobook being made, as I would love to be able to audition for such a role! I have recommended this book to so many people, and purchased at least 4 copies myself to give to friends. 

If the opportunity presented itself, I would love nothing more than to bring it to life in the form of an audiobook. If this is something you are interested in, shoot me a message! If not, I hope I was able to at least bring a smile to your face knowing that a group of people here in Ohio are loving your book!

Drove to HART in Waynesville to attend the ceremony wherein Steve was awarded the NCTC prize for Outstanding Career, which no one on this planet deserves more than he. As a surprise to almost everyone, Joe Sam Queen arose to represent the Governor in giving Steve the Order of the Long Leaf Pine, the highest honor given in North Carolina. Tears came to my eyes. It was right and well. 

Bonnie Hobbs is dead.

Vines

 August 8, 2026

Rob the handyman– who plays upright bass and in his 20's rehearsed with a combo somewhere on this street–came to fix the fascia under my roof. He claims to be mystified by the cause of the problem, but fixed it “for the moment.” Whenever I hear “for the moment” I take comfort, thinking, “How long can I live? It’ll be somebody else’s problem.” My attention drawn to the western wall, I saw how overgrown it had become with noxious vines (not noxious in the abstract, but noxious there) and went into an orgy of weeding. The damp ground provided satisfaction as whole giant root systems came up without much resistance.

My little aerator makes a glittering umbrella of drops over the waterlilies. In that I am happy. 

Can’t get my mind off the AVLGMV debacle. This is usually the sign that I’ve left unfinished business, but I’m not sure what. It’s only a debacle for me, I imagine; for the rest it’s relief from a weekly annoyance. Opposing Penis Head over Humanities I was absolutely on the side of right, fighting the Long Decline. Two years later the program was dead. Could I have saved it? Maybe not, but at least its end would have been lamentable, as it was not the way things turned out. With the chorus I think it’s more a change of generation. I’m sorry that the genius of this generation involves the apotheosis of one’s own trauma over all other matters, but there you are. I’d be fighting with people I like, who, I think, are genuinely astonished by my vehemence over matters that in their circles are never mentioned. So be it.  But something keeps me gnawing at it, like a puppy with the corner of a rug. Have I left something out? Have I been reasonable in my explanations? Is my duty to oppose or support the second-rate thing, rejoicing that it is not worse? If I’d finished my task, would it not vacate my thoughts? 

One observes of the Corporate Mind that it wants to install its plan regardless of the benefit to the organization. Better the business die than not have my mark on it. The Corporate mind confuses second and first causes, confuses the adverb for the verb. Efficiency becomes the goal, leaving behind consideration of the process that one was meant to be efficient at. Bottom line becomes the goal, forgetting that the whole ledger was meant to support some actual cause. That is what destroys universities and theaters. The goal is forgotten. The operation of administration wholly replaces the thing administered. 

Congress has just voted the stupidest man in America– and one corrupt to the limits stupidity allows–as our Attorney General. 

Evening: Rob the Handyman needs to come back tomorrow to finish. I said I’d pay him now in case I was gone tomorrow. He figured for a moment and then said, “That will be $40.” I said. “That’s ridiculous. Carrying that stupid ladder was worth $40.” I gave him $100. 

I prepared a memoir of my time with his father for Taliesin. I stopped by the Sav-Mor several times to give it to him, but he was not working. But I was filled with a need to go tonight so intense I might call it supernatural. I went, and there he was. He had to go on break, had to go home for dinner, so there was no time to talk. He was very flustered. He took the pages out and returned the brown paper envelope, saying “I’m returning this. These things are very expensive.”  I’ve never minded being a cog in someone else’s machine, a contributor to someone else’s story. Rejoice in it, in fact, when I recognize it’s happening. 

 

August 6, 2026

Thunderstorm at this moment.

Pulling of wild grapes with enormous underground tubers.

Phoned D for a quick catch-up. 

Rewrote a poem that I first wrote when J gave me the gift of a lapis lazuli ring. 

Praetorius from the computer. 

Lizard

 August 5, 2026

Turbulent day. 

Rich, intricate dreams, that ended with an extended wildlife motif. At the last I was inspecting a zoo of some kind, and was shown an exhibit where the occupant had not been seen for days. Immediately it came out of the sand, a large red lizard as friendly and demonstrative as a dog. Each time I passed, the lizard came out to greet me. This seemed symbolic at the time. 

The pond weighs inordinately on my mind. This is because it’s an ecosystem that I fostered and for which I feel responsibility. When it’s not getting aerated, I despair. Today I realized (after literally years of anxiety) that I didn’t have to replace the inaccessible motor, but could install one of those portable plug-in fountains that squirts water into the air. Raced to Jesse Israel and got one. Installation was complicated because the motor I mentioned before keeps throwing the breaker, and it looked like the new fountain didn’t work either, until I figured it all out. I do not do well with trial and error, though the universe imposes it on me when it wants. 

 

August 4, 2026

There’s a table with house plants in the living room. Every so often in the evening the houseplants quiver as though struck by a strong breeze. I’ll be sitting watching, and am sure there was in fact no strong breeze, and no way for there to be one. The fan might be on, but it’s been on for hours without any shuddering of the foliage. A little botanical ghost. A figurine of the Buddha sits amid the plants. Maybe he’s responsible. 

Taliesin

 August 2, 2026

Bought some items at Sav-Mor, and as I paid I noticed the check-out boy’s name tag: Taliesin. I knew in an instant who he was, and that I had given him that name. He’s J’s son. When D was pregnant with him, J and I strove to come up with a name that was both heroic and unusual. I’d been reading Charles Williams, so I drew Taliesin out of the air. He’s never met his father, and couldn’t believe he was as near as Johnson City. He quizzed me on J, all the while unsure he wanted to meet and know “a man like that.” Certainly J has not earned his son’s– any of his sons’– admiration. Taliesin is slight and skinny and delicate-looking, but recognizably his father’s. “What kind of man was my father?” he said. Before I censored myself, I said, “I loved him.” 

On the Internet– where I spend much too much of my time– are lists of symptoms and what ailment they indicate. When I read these, they usually imply I’m pretty damn healthy. But I read one: If You Grew up with Emotionally Undemonstrative Parents You Probably:. I tick every single box, exhibit every characteristic, have developed every single coping mechanism listed.

 August 1, 2026

Drove to Valvoline and got my car inspected by the ultra-hot redneck boys. 

Drove to Woodfin to look at the water from what used to be Riverside Park. Still raw and ruinous, as it may be for a century. Mostly people walking their dogs, none of the dogs apparently interested in meeting me. Ten geese flew by, honking, with the eleventh trailing behind. 

I try to avoid conversations with T, because they never end, but I was caught today. I helped him with the English words “dwarf” and “owl.” He works five or six jobs to keep his family afloat and navigates what a Mexican immigrant has to navigate, so he surprised me by fulminating against lazy poor people and people who want things handed to them. Maybe explains why there are immigrant Republicans– we worked hard, and by God they must too. I honor that without feeling it. T is jealous because my mulberries and his were planted at the same time, and mine are gigantic, while his are paltry. He believed that through the last several summers I underpaid him by $1500, so we got that settled. 

Calling of frogs, the music of peace. 

Quincy

 July 30, 2026

Hancock Street goes up at the Ruth Gordon Amphitheater in Quincy, Mass. That play has been done twice in Mass, though under different titles, first at Williamstown. 

After storms and heat, today was cool, sharp as glass, each object radiant.

Watched my cleaning ladies leave after their service, wondering what they thought of me from looking at my house and my things.  

Lunch with DJ and J and L. DJ was trapped in his chair during the black-out– the afflictions you don’t think of unless you’re experiencing them. 

Tempest

 July 29, 2026

Putting things back together after the spectacular storm that struck last night at dusk, the worst we’ve seen since Helene. The power failed early on, and stayed off until morning. The man at Sav-Mor said the power was off for twelve hours. I hadn’t thought until I heard him that an inconvenience for me was a catastrophe for him, with all those booths of frozen food thawing into mush. I called him because of a tree I believe to be on their property leaning crazily above the wires. Will probably discover it was on my property all the while (despite being outside the fence). Reset the pond motor. It’s always so slow to show progress that I don’t know yet if the reset was successful. On phone and email read a half dozen warnings and notices about severe weather, including a tornado warning. I heard the ghostly tornado sirens, the second time since 1983 that I’ve done so. One scoffs at tornadoes in the mountains, but one scoffed once a hurricanes, too. Went upstairs and painted until the light was wholly too low. When the rain stopped I sat on the porch and took in the night, there being nothing else to do. With all lights off, the night is luminous, the south cleared enough that the full moon lent almost-day glory to the garden and the street. It was quite beautiful, the white flowers, hydrangea, hibiscus, startling in the dim, the red flowers so bright they showed their colors. Drank Valpolicella and had one of my out-of-the-body sessions. Minutes of bliss, hard to recollect or justify afterwards. I know that to dwell in the present room of my life brings peace. What I don’t know is if I’m meant to seek peace, or victory in the battles that I believe have been set before me. 

From the attic window it seems the sky is clouding up again. With all that should be tended to, the Republicans are grilling Fauci on a diary he kept ten years ago. The Republican Party is driven by nothing but the thirst for power without responsibility, and for revenge. Should I sit in the dark and look at my flowers? The Leaden Voice whispers, “What else can you do?”

Finally listening to the whole of Akhenaton. Dear God, how did people sit through that? I hope all the singers were naked.

 

July 28, 2026

Interesting turbulence continues. Vivid dreams. I examine the coffee table for crumbs of what I ate before bed when I was already drunk. 

Frogs

 July 26, 2026

Drive to the Farmer’s Market for bluejay peanuts and sauces the farm ladies make that I have not yet tasted. Incredible traffic jams on I-26 turned that into an ordeal. 

The most amazing peace at the moment, I painting on a little river scene, Renaissance music coming from Alexa, the calling of frogs through the window from the sultry night. It has been a turbulent week, so the peace is doubly precious. It was available to me the whole time, but I felt something was being achieved by cultivating turbulence, like an arm of the sea convinced it can break through the cliffs if it just tried hard enough. 

O, I was so terrible most of my life. Why do I see it now? There can be no hope of amends– most of those who could have been damaged by me are dead. Why even think of it? Am I meant to take this as proof of Afterlife, that all that late-come wisdom should not be wasted? The crying of the frogs are benediction. Perhaps I am forgiven. Perhaps it has all been forgotten except by me. 

Anniversary

 July 25, 2026

Mother’s 102nd birthday. I found a photo of her on this day in 1945.

SW is dead. We were together from first grade forward. Her having been born in Tokyo was a sensation each first-day-of-school show-and-tell. When I decided to teach myself piano, I asked her to show me middle C. I have thought of her often, wondering where she was. Now I know. 

Alarming stains across my arm are, I recall now, the stain of the poke berries I weeded out last night. 

At loose ends, though, oddly, not in a disturbing way. In a way that makes me think that something inside me is taut with anticipation. 

 July 24, 2026

Rolling thunder, the voices of treefrogs from the fence line. Bad day. Many naps. I wonder if it is really that chorus issue that brings me down. I do think about it and grieve over it. As with the UNCA Humanities program, I saw a beautiful thing on the brink of ruin, and chose the wrong way to bring it back, or the right way and merely failed. Ray of joy when I was seated at the downstairs desk and a rabbit (looking oddly red in the light) scampered into my grass. I rejoiced because I felt he was now safe. I didn’t go out into the lawn because I wanted him to feel utterly undisturbed. 

Tropical rains

 

July 23, 2026

MB is dead. We became fast friends when we were Zeus and Hera in a Theater UNCA Metamorphosis. A witty, engaged, interesting woman. It’s  a shock when one of us goes, though it is past the time when it should be. It could be any of us at any minute. 

T writes this response to my resignation from the planning committee. No other response yet: 

Blueridgeboy. Hi David, 

     I was quite saddened to hear that you are stepping away from the creative team. I hope my comments didn't contribute to happening. I do feel your voice is an important one as I desire, and think the choir needs, to sing the kind of pieces you recommend. I want to be more of a voice for this type of music but I'm fairly ignorant, having invested much more of my life in musical theater, this is the perspective I bring to the group.

     I'm less certain now of the need for narrative in our shows than I was when we began planning Happily Ever After. From a narrative standpoint I believe the show was successful, but I agree that the narrative element strained our choices to several pieces I ended up being less than enthusiastic about. I do believe there is room for these songs in our shows, but they played a heavy hand in this last production. I would like to put forth my vision for how we move forward with shows in the future.

      I think we should see "The Holiday's are a Drag" concept through, which inevitably means bowing a little to narrative, but I believe we struck a good balance with last years show and we could continue to achieve this as long as there is someone fighting for those "traditional" pieces. I'm not certain if you saw my proposal for next spring, but in it I suggested a "theme" which could be so loosely interpreted as to allow us to do anything at all. I feel that this approach worked for "Love Unafraid", and I think it is an approach that could work in the future. By selecting a theme which is broad in scope, there is plenty of room at the table for the pieces that you are passionate about and that I want to sing.

   I feel that all the members of our group have valuable things to contribute. B leads us beautifully, JM's "Pink Christmas" choreography was great fun, M's suggestion of the cloggers was brilliant, and I'd rather sing B2's "Biblical" than "Still the One" or "We Kiss in a Shadow" (which I unfortunately contributed). However the core of the music selection came down to you, Michael, and myself, and I regret that your voice wasn't a louder one. I respect N's drive and his efforts in finding us a venue, but good heavens does the man get on my nerves, and more importantly I get the feeling that he is going to add little to our music selection process. And though I adore M and his many talents, I'm not always a fan of his taste in music. But everything you have ever put forth in my time with the group have been songs I could see myself singing, and enjoying. Once again I let myself be too constrained by narrative and may have dismissed suggestions of yours due to this, but you are the one person in the group who has not put forth at least one song that made me roll my eyes. 

     I understand wanting to step away for a time, but I hope you know that your opinion is valued, and in my opinion, necessary to this group. If your decision is final for this concert I hope that you will consider rejoining us in the spring. Thank you for everything you give this choir.

Thomas 

*

His view of things is accurate. He is in fact at fault for pinning us to skits of junior high talent show quality, and then wanting us to pick music somehow illustrative thereof. I’m given to understand this is usual in the gay chorus world, but it all but necessitates weak music selection. Not to be associated with “Rudy the Red Haired Drag Queen” is a thorn taken from my side.  

DJ and R and I went to see The Odyssey last night. Liked it. Ate as much popcorn as I have in the last five years. Reminded of all the reasons I don’t drive to the cinema anymore. Still, liked it. 

Intermittent tropical rains. I could no keep my head of the pillow. 

Resignation

 July 22, 2026

CH has died. 

After a tumultuous meeting around my dining room table (the tumult caused by me) I resigned from the AVLGMC planning committee. Another battle lost in my lifelong war against dumbing-down.  It required me to work too hard to establish the principle that , as a musical group, our first priority is doing good music. B is a superb organizer and absolutely tireless in planning and administrative matters. This makes him think he should have his way even when he’s wrong. In that, he is a perfect illustration of contemporary administrative mentality. I steer clear of matters that don’t interest me, but think I should be heeded when I’m right about matters that DO interest me. He thinks events are of a single weaving and he must exceed in all or lose all. I’m happy with a patchwork, X’s piece sewn in beside Y’s piece in eventual harmony. Whatever the abstract merits of these stances, I grew shrill (sensing I had no allies on the committee) and began even to bore myself. Try to imagine what the rest were thinking! Anyway, it’s a minor sadness and a huge relief. 

Walked out in the dark last night to investigate five police cars (empty when I passed them) lined up along my fence on Lakeshore. Lights were on in 62, my old house, which is uninhabited now. Never did figure out what the issue was. Phoned DJ, but he didn’t know either. Perhaps squatters. Maybe they found a body. I’ve already missed the morning news. 

I’d forgotten The Odyssey is funny.

Thinking of the films of Trump trying to horn in on Spain’s World Cup victory celebration. An old guy wanting to be part of the fun would be dear, I think, if the old guy weren’t a money-mad senile dictator. 

 

July 20, 2020

Email:

Rebecca Yarros <yarrosrebecca45@gmail.com>

Jul 20, 2026, 8:13 PM

Hi David,

I hope this message finds you well.

I recently finished reading The Falls of the Wyona and wanted to reach out personally. I don't often email fellow authors cold, but your novel stayed with me longer than most, and that usually tells me it's worth making the connection.

What really stood out to me was how you handled Vince and Gene's relationship through Arden's eyes. That choice to filter something so charged and unspoken through a close friend's perspective gave the whole novel a tension that felt earned rather than manufactured. It felt intentional, grounded, and honest in a way that's hard to pull off without truly understanding the story you're telling. I especially appreciated the way you let the Falls themselves carry both the literal danger and the emotional undertow of the boys' adolescence, so the setting never feels like backdrop; it feels complicated. Those are the moments that separate a good novel from one that actually lingers in a reader's mind.

As someone who's been publishing for a while, I'm always interested in connecting with writers who take their craft seriously and bring something thoughtful to the page. Your work definitely does that.

I'm not writing to pitch anything  just to say I enjoyed The Falls of the Wyona and thought it would be great to connect with you as a fellow author. If you're open to it, I'd love to stay in touch and see what you're working on next. I understand this is the first of a planned trilogy, and I'd be curious where the story goes from here.

Thanks for putting this story into the world. It was genuinely a pleasure to read.

Rebecca Yarros#1 NYT Best-selling Author

*

Too many AI fakes of this kind for me to celebrate boisterously. But, maybe celebrate quietly, so nobody will smirk when it turns out to be some kind of scam. 

 July 18, 2026

Arvo Part on CD

Teaching myself to yodel. It was good one night, but I have not satisfactorily reproduced the sound. 

Teaching myself to sing countertenor. I can actually do it for a few bars, and have found a way to sustain the sound without waver. But it is exhausting. Is it as exhausting to those who actually have the right voice?

Teaching myself the use of colored pencils. I bought several sets in the past, I suppose in anticipation of this moment. It requires more patience than oils, but is proportionately more relaxing. Excellent tutorials on You Tube. 

Re-reading the Lattimore Odyssey in preparation for seeing the film with DJ and Russell. Still the most amazing narrative energy. Athena keeps mentioning how big Telemachus is, as if in subtle rebuke for letting himself be pushed around. I’d forgotten that the murder of Agamemnon was, then, still the news. 

Linda sends photos of dad during his dating and social life after mother’s death and we left home. He looked so happy and full of life---

Blue Spruce

 July 16, 2026

Heat returns. Two inspectors who came to the house today remarked on the beauty of the house and the luxury of the garden. “You have a green thumb” says the dehumidifier guy. Then he adds, “I want to go out back and have a look at your blue spruce.” I’m not altogether sure how he knows about my blue spruce, but spruce and I take whatever admiration we can get. Dehumidifier guy worries about my stand of poke, fearing its proximity to the house may tempt carpenter ants. I do not articulate my excuse that it causes birds to perch against the bathroom window, where I can watch them from the toilet. Iris the cleaning lady says she will never raise my rate, for now “dear old Dorothy” and I are her favorite ancient customers. 

 

July 15, 2026

DB has died.

 

July 14, 2026

AVGMC planning meeting last night. Initiated use of my Godzilla ice cubes. 

As I moved the trash barrels for trash day, a fledgling towhee scampered out from behind and hid under the porch.

Jameson Currier has died. 

UU

 July 12, 2026

Concert at the UU fellowship in Hendersonville. It brought back memories of my visits there as a guest speaker. We did well (in the sense that we pleased the crowd) and shared remembrances of B. They served us delicious sandwiches. Drove home with T, which provided pleasant conversation rather than the usual melange of brooding thoughts. Fell asleep on the sofa, and woke at about 3 AM to a news program announcing the death of Senator Lindsey Graham. They were trying mightily to name accomplishments other than the various hypocrisies he used to stay in power. They repeated, “he was a friend to Israel” as often as they could. Shocked that he was younger than I. I’ve not done my research, but I’m thinking he spent a whole lot of time in the public eye for doing not much of anything.

Deaths

 July 10, 2026

All Souls gets a million $ + grant from FEMA to pay for clean up that happened two years ago. Sarah says on the news, “It allows us to start from ground zero, instead of from a hole.” 

Brief, welcome rain. 

B has died.

FT has died. 

Supper at Rye Knot with M and his kids, passing on their way to Williamsburg. After hard times, he has landed in his feet. 

 July 9, 2026

The last several nights as I’ve gone to bed, birds were singing in the dark. I can’t identify them, but they go from midnight until dawn, when the usual suspects take over. Considerable weeding in the heat of the sun, which I had not planned to do, but one foot gets set before the other. Snipped or pulled the vines that peak out at the summit of the holly wall. Rehearsal for our Saturday gig. Each time I sing these silly songs I think it’ll be the last time, but so far it has not been. My desire that we sing really well is thwarted at the very start, as the repertoire into which we have fallen does not require it.

 July 8, 2026

Rose and gardened before the heat, paying attention to the street side garden, which is doing better than it ought to do, considering the level of neglect. Mostly a wilderness of  hibiscus, unplanned but well enough. Pulled weeds out of soil that was essentially dust. Has it been that long since a soaking rain? Finally took down the winter bird feeders, the remnant seeds glued together inside in blocks by gray-blue fungus. To discard is probably better than to clean. 

Anniversary

 July 7, 2026

Fifty years ago today they were opening my heart in Cleveland Clinic. That, at least, seems to have been money well spent. 

Donated money to Ossoff’s campaign in Georgia. 

MAGA occasionally responds to my Facebook posts. The speed with which they resort to belligerent stupidity is staggering, generally in the first try. They are not even expressing opinions, but mouthing talking points, like those dolls we used to have where you pull a string in their neck and they repeat a recorded message.  

Lord, why do you make creatures you do not love?

 July 5, 2026

Sat on the front porch listening to the deep throat of the rolling thunder. Rain came, not enough to kill the drought, but enough to get the green things through the night. I was up early watering on my own, amazed that a long time standing with the hose in my hand didn’t get the water very deep in.  Pulled up a vast wild grape root that I have been fighting for a decade, finally victorious. As I sat on the porch listening to the thunder, I listened also to my own thought. Why was I thinking those particular things? Arguments with people long dead, or who never existed. Contemplation of my youth, when, I realize now, I was averse to the show of emotions, keeping mine in check, avoiding or judging others when they let theirs free. This must have been a tribulation to my mother. I remember my fury when I found her crying because someone (maybe it was me) had hurt her feelings. My father embarrassed me terribly. I don’t know why. There were certain things I would say in front of him, and when I had to put my hand on his shoulder in Indians Guides and say “Pals Forever,” the mortification was unbearable. I don’t know why. I was too young when I noticed this for it to have come from me, but I had no memory of anywhere else to look. 

 July 4, 2026

Firecrackers in the gathering dark. Spent the morning delving Yeats, trying to discover why he could write a political poem that is a great poem, and we cannot.  Part of the reason–and the part that cannot be amended–is that his opponents at some point believed what they were doing was right, and preserved some of that dignity. We are shooting hogs in a wallow. It is hard to make that matter. It is hard to give that dignity. 

Bombardment

 July 3, 2026

The news is mostly about the heat– some new Trump atrocity, and the heat. Joy came into this wallow with visiting World Cup nations such as Scotland, Norway, Netherlands bring mirth to our cities. Some commentators cite that as proof that all will be well after the present nightmare passes, and I agree. 

Sat on the porch at morning reading Yeats. I haven’t taken him up since I retired, and he hit with the force of the First Time. But Love has pitched his mansion in the place of excrement. . . .

Bombardment of fireworks. The sound is so engaging I forget there is fire as well. 

 July 1, 2026

Wrote a blurb for Y’s new book of poems. That wasn’t her name when she was my student. When an acquaintance sends work you’re always terrified, lest they be awful and you have to find a way to say so without saying so. Thank God hers were quite wonderful. Humbling. I hope in some distant way I had something to do with them. 

World Cup

 June 30, 2026

Lunch with DJ.  Shared with the waiter our hopes that some obscure, unexpected nation-- Cape Verdes, Congo– would win the World Cup. 

 

June 29, 2026

B H writes on an education discussion online: David Hopes students talked of how much enjoyed your lectures, The best humanities professor and the best Cambridge summer! Your range of knowledge was totally impressive and so much energy. Great teachers tend to enjoy teaching, must be the classroom dynamics.

Heat wave. One says “it’s summer” and endures it. One aims the fan at one’s head for the afternoon nap. 

 June 28, 2026

Frederick the Great’s flute concerto on the radio. It’s different now that I have stood in his palace and seen his flute.

Leg issues continue into morning. It might be getting better. I made it upstairs to my office, and am in no pain now, but when I get up, go downstairs to make coffee, it may be different. I think it’s the same arthritis issue that immobilized me at Reems Creek years ago, though hugely less painful than then. Yet waking, having to take a morning piss, realizing suddenly that you may be immobile (wasn’t, but there was a moment of deep fear), puts intimations of mortality and vulnerability into the heart. I have taken haleness and freedom of movement (however ouchy) for granted.  if I were truly immobile nobody would look for me until Iris comes to clean house on Thursday. She would find the door locked, go home, send a message that the door was locked.  

Danny was hospitalized with a leg infection, and though that has cleared, he tells L that he can’t live alone anymore, and her project is to find him a nursing home. Evidently he barricaded himself in since Eileen died, fearing to live alone, fearing to let anyone in, like Domitian rattling around in the Golden House.

In my feed was a story of a 16 month old boy who was killed when police, speeding to apprehend a robber, struck his parents’ car. A video of his first birthday showed a bright-eyed, happy kid, laughing at some antic of his father. I leaned over in the chair and howled, uncontrollably, longer than I thought I could. His mother on camera tried to express her grief. It was like a dark tunnel, stretching from her heart into the universe, limitless, inexpressible. I used to grieve and abominate the right things, but until old age I never actually felt them. This is a great gift and blessing.  I am the Vala Nienna. I am Rachel weeping for her children. 

 June 27, 2026

Tweety bird-loud grayish morning. Sang last night at Canton Presbyterian for Haywood County’s first Pride Weekend. GPS was unable to locate the building accurately, so I had to park at some distance and walk toward a steeple I hoped was the right one. That made me sweaty and grumpy, but the event itself was fulfilling. The little church was full, the congregation exuberant. Walking back, I noted that the streets of Canton are absolutely empty– reminded me of Asheville when I moved here in the early 80's. Canton is trying to come back from losing its one industry– who knows? I made hints about backing out of the show, but B declared that I was needed. Saw that I was. Could hear no other bass but myself. Luckily, it was a good voice day. 

Bach from the new study Alexa, whom I’ve given a rather startling masculine voice. Planted ferns from the end-of-season sale at Plant Delights. 

Re-organized the studio. Painted. 

Left leg inclined to collapse under me, for no reason I can think of. 

La Follia

 June 25, 2026

When I looked out back the last several mornings, at rabbit was grazing near the fence.  Today I saw my fat groundhog and a feral cat (very spotted– an Appaloosa cat?) hanging out together. Fat boy did his best to get under the tool shed. Cat declined to follow, hid at the back. My protestations that I meant no harm went unheeded. 

Errands. Big box to Goodwill. Weeding, dead-heading, bamboo severance

La Follia on repeat.

Scam

 June 24, 2026

In email this morning:

Maddie Caldwell <mcaldwell@penguinrandomshouse.com>

Jun 23, 2026, 7:39 PM (15 hours ago)

to me

I hope this message finds you well.

 My name is Maddie Caldwell, and I am an Executive Editor at Random House Books.

 I recently came across your book, The One with the Beautiful Necklaces, and wanted to reach out personally. I was genuinely impressed by its mythic depth, lyrical style, and the way you bring the Appalachian setting and generational story to life.

 I would be interested in learning more about your current writing projects and future plans, as well as whether you are currently represented by a literary agent.

 If you do have representation, I would be happy to connect through your agent. If not, I would be pleased to share more about our publishing process and explore whether there may be a fit for future collaboration.

 If you are open to a discussion, I would be glad to hear from you at your convenience.

 

Warm regards,

Maddie Caldwell

Executive Editor

Random House Books

After preparing and sending a thirty page enthusiastic response, determining that Ms Caldwell is real person, I allowed myself to realize how odd and unlike-the-universe it all was. I researched, sent another response, and received this in return:

Thank you for reaching out. We can confirm that what you've encountered is a scam. Mcaldwell@penguinrandomshouse.com is not a legitimate email address associated with our company or any of our employees.

I do recognize how hilarious this is to someone watching from outside. I don’t understand who profits from it and how, unless it is simply the glee of inflicting hurt. Congratulations– I swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. 

Solstice

 June 21, 2026

Solstice. Radiant beauty. Flowers in my garden like glowing coals. The day has been luxurious, ample, rolling out hour by hour like a golden cloth. For me, every day could be the summer solstice. 

Weeding

Concert yesterday afternoon– if you can tell from the comments– a crowd-pleaser. People asked for copies of my poem, or said, “Who wrote that poem? I was trying to follow along, but it wasn’t familiar. . .” My obscurity is a judgment on the universe. Our director flubbed an entrance in the otherwise perfect Schubert. A conductor’s imperious “watch me!” should be wedded to expertise. Robert Shaw did wonderful things for choral music, but some of his practices, which can best be described as tics, became, somehow, honored standards. Not his fault, but that of his sycophants.  

Mrs towhee flew to my very toe-tip to take a crap. Offering or contempt? 

June 20, 2026

Stabs of red and black and golden calla out of the pervading green. Great mullein towering over. Last night’s concert was not “good” in the sense I usually use that word, but it was good fun, and our audience was delighted. My marriage poem was an unexpected hit. I was in the worse voice of recent times, and croaked my way through anything above the bass G. MS had to carry the part. Less pained and exhausted than in times past. Was it something as elementary as new shoes? One more time for that. On the health scene– I limped through Poland and Germany with a tender foot, and have been careful since. Today I realized it was not the End of Things but  a plantar’s wart, and I got the instrument I bought long ago for the task and shaved off the top of the wart. So far, painless for the first time in months. My default setting is the belief that afflictions come without anything being able to be done about them, and then pass, magically, without anything having been done. That’s not wrong, but it’s right only about 60% of the time. 

Obsessive playing of Handel’s “As Steals the Morn.” 

 

 June 19, 2026

Sweet cool breathy day. Last night was quite terrible, me wandering down the paths of fury and rebellion. Those paths are righteous paths, even when futile. That’s a way to wake exhausted.

Another way to wake exhausted is to have a dress rehearsal as bad as ours was. Of course everything goes awry at such a time, one expects it, but the flat fact is that we don’t know the music well enough to present it to an audience. Whole elements will not be seen or heard until first performance tonight, and we typically wait till dress rehearsal to address vital elements of performance and interpretation. Until this point we are drilled about fish mouth and final consonants to the exclusion of all else.  Do I forget my fury from performance to performance, or am I just too habituated to go do something else? It’s not that we don’t have fun– we do. But we’re just not very good.  

Bears in the news for greater and greater boldness. WJ had the windows torn out of his garage door. 

Revision

 June 18, 2026

My rictus of revision continues, a great slaughter of adverbs and helping verbs, by thousands of words reduced. My initial preference for the construction, “was working” over “worked” needs to be examined. I think I want to prolong action rather than freeze it in the minute, but that’s good only for one sentence in fifty. Like a poet, I pay attention to the music of a line. Sometimes that’s good, sometimes it must be corrected. Also, the odd conviction that everything must be attributed to somebody in the story. I have to take out, “Sam saw Rhys walking out of the near woods” and replace it with “Rhys walked out of the near woods” about 100 times. But I finished, and wept as I was finishing.

 June 17, 2026

Woke at 4 to complete prep for the colonoscopy. Reasonably sure that will never happen again. L a prince driving me and then waiting for the procedure to happen. Personnel at the clinic friendly and light-hearted, joking with each other in the corridor. Groggy– from the anesthesia? From the fuss and tedium of it all? 

 June 16, 2026

Fast for the idiot colonoscopy. I wouldn’t have eaten yet at this hour on any other day, but the idea that I CAN’T is provoking. I make too much of every interruption in my routine. I am not one who takes things in stride. 

Miserable with cold last night. Getting up and retrieving the comforter seemed beyond my abilities, somehow. 

Timothy Liberty

 

June 14, 2026

Timothy Liberty was first presented in April, 1986. I’ve been writing plays for 40 years. Plus. One feels perpetually a journeyman.

Poetry

 

June 12, 2026

Diana Wortham died five days before she accepted my Facebook Friend request. 

Stephen says this of How to Spend Your Father’s Birthday:

SM: 7:44 PM (55 minutes ago: to me

I'm in awe. I don't know how else to phrase it, your work has always been incredible but now that I have a bit more lived experience - some of these words cut sharp. 

Can you download WhatsApp? It's the messaging system we use here / it's so much easier. If you have it, my number is +353838638100 

A Christmas Poem - beyond words. If you can make me feel like that (I'm normally an emotionless android). That one really hit home for me. 

Still making my way through them. Each one needs breath so I'm taking my time 

Supper with DJ at Vinnie’s. Huge mastiff slobbering on the terrace. We talked about the strange politics of the church, the factions each largely mysterious to the other. Wheels within wheels. Something is wrong with the rebuilding process that is not fully addressed by the sentence, “It takes time.”

 June 11, 2026

Woke stomach-ill, wondered why. Walked into the kitchen and realized that, while drunk, I’d drunk half a bottle of blue-cheese dressing. 

Infuriating rehearsal. Our director will lose count and fail to make an entrance in order to make fish mouth. For any arts director, the thing you correct most is the thing you’re wrong about. Never a better illustration.

Picked up the book of 17th century writings I bought in Waynesville. Went through, with surprise and delight, Bacon and Jonson. I was supposed to have read them long ago, but probably did not. 

My back door stood wide open when I returned from rehearsal. I left it open, creeping through the house, so if an animal got in it would have an exit. Seems to have been no intruder. 

 June 9, 2026

Planning meeting here last night, me berserk with impatience at things which really needed to be taken care of. I’m not a detail oriented person. I have flashes of insight which are often useful, but the bean-counting nit-picking long haul leaves me shrieking. People at UNCA gave me shade for never doing administrative work. I thought to myself, “you don’t want that.”

Devil’s pokers in bloom.

The catbirds are, unexpectedly, the bullies of the garden. They chase the bluejays away from the peanut bowl and then don’t eat them themselves. 

 June 8, 2026

I believe I’ve finished the sweeping revision of Brothers Mountain. Seven thousand words cut, though what excites me is all the matter added and clarified. Articles and helping verbs fell like chaff in a thresher. 

Filled out a medical form for my upcoming colonoscopy. Most of it is fudged terribly, as I had no idea what the answer to some of the questions were, and typed in just what would allow me to go on and get the thing finished. 

Reptiles

 June 5, 2026

Waterlilies in bloom, having taken the ravages of the bears in stride. 

Evening primrose in bloom.

Giant calla in bloom. 

Outstanding progress on the novel.

Reptile day at 51 Lakeshore. I sat on the front porch drinking tea and watching a five lined skink patrol the bricks. I asked him to crawl across my naked foot, and a few seconds later he actually did, letting the side of his foot touch the side of my toe. While watering, I stirred up something in the 4 o’clock patch. It was a copperhead. The instant spearhead of panic in my chest at the sight of her was totally unexpected. Almost immediately came the apprehension of her extreme, cool, antique beauty. I considered that I have live 75 years without having been bitten by a snake, except for those I was holding, and since it’s unlikely that I’ll ever pick up a copperhead, I should consider myself safe. In any case killing her was out of the question. If she decides to relocate on her own I wouldn’t object.

Lupines

June 4, 2026

Day of crystalline loveliness. Took my neglected car to be washed. I watched the boys who work at the car wash, thinking how incredibly young it is possible to be.  

Despaired of the lupine seeds I’d planted, but when I went to re-till the area, there were seedlings hiding under the morning glory sprouts, so I weeded to give them a chance. Bought mature lupine and foxglove to fill in the spaces. The employees at the nursery were dressed as bees and butterflies. 

Random memory of my mother darning socks. The darning egg lay in her sewing bocks for decades. I wonder where it is now. 

 

 June 2, 2026

I must record the odd truth that revising my book makes me stupid with joy. 

But, tragedy at my alma mater: As part of this effort, the College has made the decision to eliminate several programs, including eight majors (Biochemistry, Creative Writing, eSports and Gaming Administration, International Studies, Neuroscience, Physics, Public Health, and Social Science) and four minors (French, Spanish, Physics, and Medieval Studies). These decisions were guided by factors including student demand, enrollment trends, and long-term sustainability. As a result of these program changes, six faculty positions have been eliminated. The question I would ask is, how many administrative positions have been eliminated. I expect the answer will be “none.”

Torrential rain began the second I got the trash bins off the street and got back inside.