Tuesday, June 9, 2026

 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. 


Friday, June 5, 2026

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.


 

June 1, 2026

Parents’ wedding, 1947

Unaccustomed outpouring of personal regard, which I record as one records the appearance of a strange species of bird. K writes: You are one of the best people I know.  You have a big heart.  Grateful for you. I checked the message twice to be sure it was meant for me. I assumed a certain measure of antipathy (reasons unknown) between us. 

Stephen writes, after our bout of poetry critique: 

I'm well aware I'm a novice but I really enjoyed our conversation over the last few days. Your insight and my ignorance, set a challenge for a me. To work on my scribblings and thoughts - fuelled by a deadline that passed nearly two hours ago. I feel like I undertook a masterclass with you in the best possible way. In a few days, I learnt a lot from your feedback - that kind of critique is what shapes your outlook and approach - it rightly makes you question your gut. A natural perspective is not always right (without the appropriate training to trust that perspective) and it was bit pretentious of me to think my gut would be that, without having the work done to back it up and trust that I trained my instinct, which I haven't. It's just raw.

I look forward to studying the classics and the contemporary. To have an expert evaluate my words like you did, means an awful lot and I appreciate it. 

I would have loved to have heard some of your lectures at North Carolina University. I wonder were you serious or funny? I've only ever known you to be warm, reciting quotes when you want to be punny.

You've set out a path for me - to read, learn and consume as much as I can to train my instinct - that is invaluable and I look forward to it. Thank you.

He sent me the song he wrote as Ireland’s entry to Euro vison, to which I’ll listen when I am awake enough. He composes under the name Stephen Oliver Markham

Can’t believe I began a rewrite of The One with the Beautiful Necklaces. Its publication is surely obscure enough not to make a difference. 


 May 31, 2026

My white swamp hibiscus was cut down. Security cameras, creepily, do not reveal the culprit. I was taking pride in that plant’s future. 

J’s birthday– he who made me an uncle. 

The concert I tried to hear yesterday actually happened today, a vesper service at Trinity, featuring mostly the music of Bach. Quite nice. On both evenings, downtown was enfolded by the perfume of basswood trees, my favorite scent of all. I always park at distance, to give myself exercise, and the speed of my return to the car this evening made me hopeful for my stamina. 


Sunday, May 31, 2026

Poetry

 May 30, 2026

Re-watched Once Upon a Time in Hollywood last night, then in a dream Brad Pitt was my father (wearing the same yellow Hawaiian shirt) and we were selecting a vacation camping cabin, and as soon as we were set up he was going to show me how to butcher a cow in time for that night’s barbecue. 

Got spiffed up to attend a concert at Trinity downtown, which actually happens on another night. Had a cocktail at Times. 

SM turns out to be quite serious about poetry, and sends draft after draft. His latest drafts are actually readable. He’s an outstanding musician, so why not poetry? He is infected with the notion– which must come from bad teachers–that poetry enlarges emotion by expressing it in the most difficult and obscure way possible. The harder it is to figure out, the smarter the poet, the deeper the emotion. So many new writers are metaphysicians, thinking it’s needful for us to ransack history and psychology and etymology to help us unravel why that word in that place. Every statement is a knot to untie. For some that may be natural, but not for many. Anyway, he plunges forward, and I try to remain positive in my critiques. Aside from that, he is so beautiful. He sent me a voice recording of one of the poems, and though the poem is incomprehensible, I play it again and again. 


Quincy

 May 29, 2026

Fierce glut of dead-heading among the roses. Weeding, chopping of bamboo. My arms streamed blood from the thorns. 

There’s a hole in the porch big enough for a cat to squirm through. A tiny cat. 

B and her family have moved to Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho. From there you can spit into Canada. It’s clearly the remotest, most inconvenient place she could find without expatriation. 

Talked with the man who’s co-directing my little play at the Ruth Gordan Amphitheater in Quincy, MA. His co-director wanted to divide up five characters meant to be played by one person among five different actors, and he counted on me to put the kibosh on that, which I did. 


Voices from Ireland

 May 28, 2026

Back in touch with SM  Joy. He’s moved from Dublin to Ennis to help take care of an ailing father, “Because in Ireland the gay son is the same as the unwed daughter.” He sent me gawdawful poems that I had to think of something kindly to say about. 

Came home to a large ring snake lying on the side porch, looking as much like a stick as he was able.


 May 27, 2026

Alternation of shimmering hot sunlight and thunderstorm, like a tropical forest. 

Drove to Waynesville to renew my acquaintance with the Dimensions bookstore. Had cappuccino next door, bought two books I didn’t need. Immersed myself in the apparently boundless enthusiasm of its owner D (who didn’t remember me at first.). Those environs would depress me in half an hour (as in fact they did) He bubbles and effuses. The strip of street is like a little village, everyone coming to check in on one another. 


Memorial

 May 25, 2026

Memorial Day. The TV plays wonderful old war moves, where we win without being sons-of-bitches 

Sang for K’s memorial service at Warren Wilson. Naomi Nontombi Tutu was the surprise presence. She gave a lazy eulogy based on the ancient, divisive quarrel that arose at her leaving All Souls and lingered far too long. I wish I knew K in her prime. Everybody said she was “ a force of nature.” I remember mostly a COVID mask and her being mad at me for being on the wrong side of the Naomi controversy. 


Retired

 May 24, 2026

Pentecost. Pickerel weed and black calla bloom in containers on the porch. Inches of water on the tops of containers that don’t drain well.

The retired faculty meeting plays in my head. Such a deal of Machievelli-ism to such insignificant ends. W is the particular case. After we were friends, he re-invented me as a bitter enemy, though I was never any such thing. There wasn’t enough substance to him either to fear or dislike very much. Yet of all people in my life (to my knowledge) he spent the most energy vilifying and slandering me. I think he thinks he got away with it that I don’t know, he greets me with such cordiality when we, accidentally, meet. His efforts from time to time crossed over from nuisance into actual evil. I wonder if he faces this truth? It was perplexing, and more flattering than he anticipated, that one would go to such lengths on my behalf, whatever the intention. I survived– it’s possible that everyone is as wise to him as I became and paid no attention. But there he is, a worm squirming into any hole that will hold him, playing for minuscule bits of influence. He has influence of a sort, in the form of concessions made to shut him up. He is also held in amused contempt by almost everyone I know. His friends protect him from knowledge of himself. Now that I’ve written that, I imagine that mine do the same for me. 

“Sunday Baroque” on the radio

Gigantic prose revisions all yesterday, probably continuing today.


 May 23, 2026

Had to get a winter coat to cover me last night, clutching a sweater to my body just now. Playing a new CD of Gregorian chant. Ave Maria. . . .Last night full of dreams and an incredible volume of urine. I don’t remember drinking nearly that much. In one of the dreams I was in some quaint Old World village which had been Yeats’ childhood home. The store selling his memorabilia was closed, so I broke in to have a look, finding incredible treasures in te basement, which seemed to disintegrate as my hand touched them. I was crying out for the shopkeeper to help me as the dream ended. 

Decided to put together another book of poetry. I have enough poems for four solid books, with no presently perceivable principle of selection. A despair of riches. 

Saturday, May 23, 2026

 May 22, 2026

Watched the last edition of Stephen Colbert last night. Farewell. 

Off in slow rain to Campus to the annual lunch meeting of the RFFA, Retired Faculty and Administration. I’ve dodged many such events, and now that I know what goes on, I’ll dodge the rest. Good seeing a few people I haven’t seen in a while; otherwise, three hours of life I won’t get back. Not bad, just remote from my interests. Lunch was excellent. I haven’t figured out exactly what the organization is for. Perhaps if I wanted continued influence over my old university I would understand better. Some want that very keenly indeed. Turns out that next year is UNCA’s Centennial, year. That is, apparently, a prime opportunity for fundraising. Mr M, “Director of Engagement,” handed me an envelope which contained testimonials from former students calling me their outstanding faculty memory. I didn’t remember any of them, which makes it sweeter, I suppose, that they remember me. 

Friday, May 22, 2026

May 21, 2026

Drought turns into days of grayish drizzle and full bird baths, which is fine by me. 

I may have overestimated the damage the bears did to the pond. It is in fact holding water. I took a net and ladled out as much vegetable debris as I could. I had to examine each netful for the flashing bodies of mosquito fish and gold fish and enormous bull tadpoles, to deliver them back into the water. All this was unmistakable sign of life. This morning as I threw some recycling into the bin, a bullfrog called from the margin, and I decided to let be for a time. Bears are a widely-publicized problem locally right now. Several have been euthanized in Black Mountain. People accuse human encroachment on traditional bear habitat, but I wonder if that’s the actual story. I lived on this street for 25 years before I ever saw a bear. My house stood for 95 years before bears tore out the basement windows. You’d think that would have happened way back, given their propensities, had there actually been bears to do it. I love the bears, but realize I limit my time sitting on the porch at night because of them, and keep a heavy bat by the backdoor in case something needs to be repulsed. 

ACLGMC rehearsal engaging. What makes something so lighthearted that was such a chore erewhile?  

Peace Frog

May 20, 2026

Still no rain, though a pittance is promised for tonight.

My bear videos are getting hundreds of views.

Peace Frog reading last night at Dimension of Books in Waynesville, on a genrtrifying street facing a mountain. Big handsome Doug opened the store a few months ago. He looks like a TV sports reporter, as I think he was for a while. We’re from the same part of Ohio, which I knew from his lack-of-accent accent. Used books, all dusty, some quite esoteric. Doug seems deeply happy, and this little store his dream. I hope all goes well for him forever. If I had known exactly what the event was, I would probably have refused, but I went and it is well. Ten or twelve people in a tiny, tiny rooms, sweating like stevedores. What an odd thing poetry is. Unlike in almost any other art form, amateurism is not only tolerated, but encouraged as, somehow, genuine. Amid that I was a white flame. They acclaimed me a great poet, and whether that is true or not, I changed the perspective of the room. One woman said that I was either a great poet or a great performer, and she didn’t know which. Imagine saying that to Mozart. Poets who are not good performers should not perform, but rely on their readers. My life has been poetry, yet even I roll my eyes when required to go to a reading, knowing how unlikely it is to be excellent. 

The breaking light revealed that the bears returned, and this time destroyed everything. They ripped a hole in the fabric of the pond and drained much of the water. They scooped out the water plants and left them torn on land. They broke my one remaining pear tree and toppled the lawn statuary that I had righted yesterday. This is the end of that joy. The pond is too much of a temptation to wild animals who have grown far too bold. I had it for ten years, and perhaps that is enough. But, sad. I think of the calling of frogs, the birds slaking their thirst, the occasional heron, the lilies like gems flowering in the shadows. 

 

 May 17, 2026

The shirt I wore to the ballet was last worn, according to the dry cleaning label, in 2012. The server at the Wortham café admired my outfit.

At dusk two bears entered my yard. One was enormous, clearly full grown, the other smaller but much too big to be this year’s cub. Neither had collars. They romped in the pond, got out of the pond and romped in the grass. You don’t expect bears that big to be that playful. This went on for a good half hour. I don’t know how much of the waterlilies they decimated. They overturned my cement swan, out of sheer devilment. I don’t know where they went, but I’m not going outside until dawn. I have to admit I was smiling the whole time they were here.  Happy creatures. One does recognize that, if they turned aggressive, animals that size would be unanswerable. 


Saturday, May 16, 2026

Cinderella

May 16, 2026


Parked at First Baptist last night and made my way through Downtown After 5 festivities to the Wortham to see Ann’s Cinderella, to the music of Prokofiev. It was astoundingly good. I was caught up in the theater of it regardless of my reservations concerning classical ballet. Chit-chat with Tom and CoCo. Sweet night in my little town.  

May 15, 2026

Wearing my winter jacket indoors o n the 15th of May. Finished a rewrite of Ben and Angela, toward no conceivable end but my own satisfaction. 

 

 May 13, 2026

Hard gardening, centered on the bags of mulch I bought more than a year ago finally getting spread around. One day is right after a thousand days were wrong. 

Rabbit grazed within reach as I was weeding. 

 May 12, 2026

Amazon delivery mistakenly left a package for my neighbor on my porch. I phoned him, and as I was describing how we were right across the street from each other, he said, “Oh! Where the bears squeeze in.” Yes. I like that. Where the bears squeeze in. 

Went to All Souls to discuss with a fundraising guru how to raise money to rebuild. My mind goes almost immediately to the very rich, who should be encouraged to find something beneficial to do with their excess. 


Sunday, May 10, 2026

Closing

 

May 10, 2026

Skipped church, unable to endure the choir substitute. 

Attended the final performance of Purification. Arrived early, sat under a tree in the bank parking lot while the immaculate sapphire sky blazed above. The actors were on fire, and the experience was totally different from what it was when they were not quite on fire. Quick. Exciting. I got every syllable. Fine ending note. The house was chocked with my friends, as Steve said it has often been. The revision was in my head, and when they came to parts I had changed, I kept hoping (impossibly) that the actors would use the revision. 

B writes on Facebook: i am so glad i was able to experience The Sublime Theatre's production of David Hopes' Purification.

a passionate, witty, and effective call to the masses to not only demand, but to work for change. this cast and crew quite vividly brought the show to life. so much heart. so much humanity. so much humor mixed with justifiable frustration and anger. and it was such a wonderful mother's day gift to get see this with my kid.

and now.... sunday night karaoke....

i wonder what protest songs i know?

*

M also mentioned that she had given the afternoon to herself to be away from her family on Mother’s Day. People like I, with loads of solitude, don’t realize how precious it is to others. 


Dinner Party

 May 9, 2026


D and her husband P here for dinner last night. She has become her mother, and there were moments when I had to consider twice to be sure whom I was talking to. She observed that I have become my father. P is both an unexpected and perfect mate for her, a pilot and a computer programer, light hearted where she is inclined to be morose. They have given themselves to good works through their church, including a summer camp for children in foster care. Three times she said, “You were at Michael’s funeral,” which made me hugely glad that I was. I can barely remember a time when I didn’t know D, and yet what do I know of her? Last night was the longest conversation we ever had. I remember her preference for dark meat and for the skin of the turkey at Thanksgiving when we were kids, but I had to ask her how many kids she has, and what she did for a living. She remembered a salad I made out of wild greens. 


Review 2

 May 8, 2026


REVIEW: “Purification” | A thought-provoking new work

By Blaine Greenfield

Chief Encouragement Officer, BLAINESWORLD

At: The BeBe Theatre

From April 30-May 10

The Sublime Theater & Press

presents a World Premiere

of “Purification”

By David Brendan Hopes


I attended the first night of the show’s second-week run.

David Brendan Hopes’ “Purification” is an ambitious and richly textured new work that moves back and forth between 1911 and the present day, exploring how people respond when personal conviction and morality collide. At the center of the story is a small circle of friends and lovers whose lives are unexpectedly altered by a box of speeches and writings discovered in a basement storeroom, documents that connect them to an early 20th-century activist and begin to reshape the way they look at the world around them.

Rather than preaching a specific viewpoint, Hopes invites the audience into conversations about conscience, human connection, and the choices people make during unsettled times. The play blends drama and romance with music and touches of magical realism into a story that is both emotionally engaging and mentally absorbing. It’s the kind of production that sparks discussion long after the final scene ends while also searching for a path to better days.

Hopes has long been associated with thoughtful and socially aware theater, and that sensibility is very much on display here. “Purification” is less concerned with easy entertainment than with provoking reflection and examining ideas through richly layered characters and interpersonal dynamics.

All five performers are outstanding, with several taking on multiple roles. Notably, all five performers are making their Sublime Theater debuts.

Ben Mackel (Axel, Vincent Perrugia) is especially impressive throughout the evening. Whether providing comic moments, emotional grounding, or intensity, he handles each role with confidence and versatility. He also sang several songs during the production, including a powerful rendition of Phil Ochs’ “Small Circle of Friends” that set the tone beautifully for much of what followed.

Kai Chamberlain, making her stage debut as Anna Radzinsky, delivers a poised and emotionally compelling performance. One monologue in particular was especially moving and demonstrated both strength and vulnerability.

Chessa Budai (Diana) brings warmth, intelligence, and emotional depth to her roles, particularly in scenes dealing with family tensions and philosophical disagreements.

Eric Martinez (Jim) gives the production an appealing sincerity and grounded presence, helping anchor many of the contemporary scenes.

Braden LaMore, also making his stage debut as Cecil, handles the role with confidence and charm while also sharing believable chemistry with the rest of the cast.

Directed by Steven Samuels, the production moves smoothly between time periods and tones while keeping the focus squarely on the characters and the ideas driving the play. This marks the fourth collaboration between him and Hopes, and the creative partnership clearly continues to bring out strong work from both men.

Production Stage Manager Dakota Mann, Costume & Set Designer Kayren McKnight, and Lighting Designer Abby Auman all contribute strongly to the evening, with McKnight’s costumes especially effective and the overall visual presentation consistently appealing.

And then came one of the evening’s nicest touches. Near the conclusion of the play, sponge cake was served to performers onstage as part of the action, and afterward, audience members were invited to enjoy some as well. It created a warm and memorable sense of connection between cast and audience.

Kudos to The Sublime Theater & Press for continuing to champion original, challenging, and artistically ambitious work. This is a company clearly committed to supporting local and regional artists while creating productions that encourage audiences to think and engage. “Purification” fits that mission beautifully.


High 5

 May 7, 2026

Spent the day, as I thought I would, revising Purification.

My place by the river, the café High 5, was destroyed by an arsonist last night. It is the place where, locally, I have written most, except for this room in which I type. People ask, “Why would anyone do such a thing?”  There is almost never an answer.

Man is in love and loves what vanishes,

What more is there to say? That country round

None dared admit, if such a thought were his,

Incendiary or bigot could be found

To burn that stump on the Acropolis,

Or break in bits the famous ivories

Or traffic in the grasshoppers or bees.


Review

 May 6, 2026

Clouds but not yet the promised rain. 

A perceptive review of Purification by Bruce Steele from Asheville Stages:

Purification at BeBe Theatre

What should you be willing to do to resist tyranny? Do the ends justify the means — even to the point of violence? These are questions that echo through history and through David Brendan Hopes’ thought-provoking new play Purification, now in its world premiere production by The Sublime Theater & Press at the BeBe Theatre in downtown Asheville.

The play establishes its themes right off the bat as actor/singer/guitarist Ben Mackel shares a portion of activist/songwriter Phil Ochs’ angry 1967 folk song “Small Circle of Friends”: 

Enter this play’s small circle of friends, two couples bantering blithely at a coffee shop: Cecil (Braden LaMore) and Jim (Eric Martinez), and Diana (Chessa Budai) — Jim’s ex-lover — and Axel (Mackel), Diana’s new flame and the shop musician. Jim is clever, down-to-earth, and earnest; Cecil is stylish and somewhat pretentious (“People tend to exaggerate my vacuousness”); Diana is fun-loving but increasingly worried about the state of the nation (“Have you been watching the news again?” Jim asks. “Haven’t we warned you about that?”).

Jim’s mother has recently moved into an assisted living facility, and when Jim and Cecil set to sorting her belongings in a box-filled basement, they find a cache of papers belonging to Jim’s great-great-aunt, an early-20th-century activist named Anna Radzinsky. Reading aloud her manifestos on freedom and the oppression of the working class (“Hesitation is the luxury of the rich”) soon conjures Anna herself (Kai Chamberlain) onto the stage, and Purification reveals its parallel-time structure, alternating between 1911 and the present. Also on hand now and again is Vincenzo Peruggia (Mackel), a real historical figure best known for stealing the Mona Lisa from the Louvre (an incident without which the painting would likely have remained largely unknown to the world).

The 1911 scenes are the more engaging, as the stakes are clearer and the characters more intricately imagined, including a smart use of the then-newly published story of Peter Pan. (J. M. Barrie turned his 1904 stage hit into a novel titled Peter and Wendy, published in 1911.) Anna’s activism draws from historical figures such as Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, but Hopes gives the fictional Anna a connection to a wealthy New York family, allowing him to create the most resonant relationship in the play, the affectionate but fraught connection between Anna and her sister, Sophie (Budai), a New York socialite by marriage. (Sophie is Jim’s great-grandmother.) Their meeting for lunch at the upscale Manhattan restaurant Delmonico’s is one of the play’s two best scenes, and it introduces a likable waiter and Anna acolyte (Mackel). This character’s later scene with Sophie at her upscale home showcases the talents of Budai, Mackel, and Hopes in layered emotions and philosophical conundrums grounded in lived experience, and it’s brilliantly executed.

The present day scenes are more generalized, presumably because Hopes wanted to keep those characters more broad — Everypeople, serving as the audience’s stand-ins, rather than fully realized (and thereby perhaps less relatable). They also come to speak in more rhetorical, less natural phrasings as the story of Anna’s work inspires them to consider what they ought to be doing to resist in their own lives and times. (“Some of us are still processing. If we rush, we blunder.”) While LaMore and Martinez have a sweet chemistry as Jim and Cecil in earlier scenes, they have a harder time making the later debates come to life. It’s especially difficult to discuss tyranny while declining to name any particular politician, tyrant, or offense, as Hopes elects to do here.

Anna’s rhetoric, emerging from historical specificity, comes with more conviction, and Chamberlain comfortably embodies the character’s passion in speeches and interpersonal interactions. The small cast’s secret weapon is Mackel, who rises easily to each challenge: troubadour, comic rebel (as Perrugia, of whom the play could use more), earnest disciple, and so on. (Mackel was equally entertaining as Richard Dreyfuss in NC Stage Co.’s The Shark Is Broken last fall, a venue to which he’ll return as a musician next month, according to his program bio.)

As is his particular skill, director (and Producing Artistic Director) Steven Samuels makes the most of limited resources, keeping the focus on the characters and their cunundrums, so the bare-bones sets and furnishings aren’t a hindrance. One of the points of Hopes’ play is that words matter, and Samuels serves the local playwright’s text nimbly with that in mind.

I would guess that the script’s ending is as much a call for discussion as it is a provocation, and audience members will have much to talk about after the two-act play wraps. They’ll want to reconsider the questions that open this review, and also, perhaps, the pros and cons of equating the political situations of 1911 and 2026. Anna and her real-life counterparts worked to counter the power of the rich (a familiar current refrain) on behalf of the downtrodden and exploited proletariat. How they would react — and how modern activists should react — to a power grab by the wealthy and privileged that was supported at the ballot box by overwhelming numbers of that same downtrodden working class remains an unconsidered question.

To paraphrase one memorable line from the play: It would be a mistake to think that purification will be a natural process.

*

Steele finds the places that bothered me, too, either in the writing or in the watching.  I know that instead of the twenty other things I’d planned to do, I’ll be revising that play. 


Artifact

 

May 4, 2026

The terrible anniversary.

Rabbit playing in the yard. 

Vivaldi issuing somehow from the computer. 

So fed up by operations in the choir that I left service early yesterday, assuming nobody observed. 

But afterwards through crystalline spring light to the BeBe for my second look at Purification. Parked on Ravenscroft, walking through a lovely idyllic neighborhood right against downtown. The play seemed better to me the second time. Only part of that was a better performance by the actors; the rest was that I, like an ordinary audience member, was making connections and feeling resonances that passed me by the first time, perhaps overwhelmed by anxiety. I wept when Anna was shot. I picked out threads weaving through the work that others had praised but I’d failed to notice the first night. A couple from Johnson City said they had seen all my plays done by the Sublime, and this was the best. It’s still odd to me– after many re-affirmations– that a work I created can be so mysterious to me. The artifact is wiser than the artificer. 


 May 2, 2026

Cold, bright. A day of inexplicable exhaustion, wherein to see the bed was to lie down upon it. Perhaps it’s the emotional release afforded by good comments about the play, especially from P, who would have said nothing if he hadn’t meant his praise. The depth of P’s scholarship is a continual astonishment to me. He clawed through Young’s Night Thoughts in order to understand how they relate to Blake. John Dee came up in conversation, and he knew everything. 

Did I really get an email from LR? 


Saturday, May 2, 2026

 

May 1, 2026

First sight: rabbit scampering across the street to Carolyn’s. 

Opening night of Purification quite satisfactory– sufficient audience to keep me from despair in that regard, the actors a light year beyond where they were when last I saw them. Cecil and Jim got into a loop where they repeated lines until easing back on track, but that’s live theater. Anna had made tremendous strides. Axel was a bundle of glinting talent. I couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t seen him before. The play. . .  in my years as a playwright on opening night I had the least emotion surrounding this one, not anxious, not cringing at errors, not secretly applauding my own genius, not probing the room for reactions. It was well. Insofar as it wasn’t well, I didn’t care. It is not my best work, but people will think it is. I sat with a man who was my student in a playwriting course in 2003, who remembered fondly writing a play about men talking at a urinal. The walk from my car to and back from the theater was an epic, at first blue and crowded with incident, then moonlit and solitary.

P and I finished our study of the Four Zoas this afternoon. He and L saw my play tonight, and sent this message: “Oh David, we couldn’t get over how fine your play is and just posted in two places on Facebook the link for tickets. The space was almost full. I hope it will continue to be. Thank you for your gift.”


 April 30, 2026

Bright and cool. The lady on the TV promised rain, but she was wrong.

Ungodly rehearsal last night. Our substitute imagines that talking is the same as directing. He showed vulnerability to some of the more aggressive basses, who began a war of whispering and belligerent questions. To top it off, the bar we headed to afterwards closed as we approached. 

Finally realized that the sickish feeling I have is related to opening night, now 7 hours off. I cannot help. I can only hinder by sending our frantic vibrations--


Thursday, April 30, 2026

Frank

 April 29, 2026

As I stand painting in the attic, the calling of frogs comes loud and joyful from the pond. 

Raced down to the sound of a doorbell. I do not have a doorbell. No one was at the door.

From Frank in Cleveland: What an honor to receive this email from you on the eve of opening night of what may be the best play I ever read. I had marked my calendar in the hope I might be able to attend, but alas, I cannot. I can only hope it will be recorded (I would be happy to contribute to make that happen) and if it is, I want to purchase a copy.I continue to believe this play can have a positive impact on people at a time when we are all wandering around saying, "What in the hell is going on?" and "Why in the hell is this going on?" and "How in the hell do we stop this!?"

I have felt all the things you are feeling right now. I remember when I directed The Merry Wives of Windsor, my first Shakespeare play, for free in downtown Canton and carrying set pieces to where we stored them after the final dress rehearsal, an actor said to me, "How can you be so calm when there are so many things that could go wrong tomorrow?" I thought about all the things he was talking about (I said to myself, "You don't know the half of it!") and said, "We have something really good. We have done everything we can to be as prepared as possible. There is nothing left to do, but do it. Whatever will be, will be." That one went great and I went on to direct four more. 

Break a leg. Frank


Wednesday, April 29, 2026

 April 28, 2026

Two days of intermittent but blessed rain. 

SS says not to bother with rehearsal tonight, so I will finish my painting. 


Rehearsal

 April 26, 2026

Lilies (yellow callas) were languishing in their tubs in the church kitchen, unclaimed after Easter. I gathered them up, brought them home and put them into ground still damp from the rain. 

Downtown to the BeBe to watch a rehearsal of Purification.  4/5 of the cast is stellar– the one who most needs to be, not quite yet, though I’m assured great strides of been made and greater still will come between now and Thursday. Mostly, the nerves relax, seeing that, besides expectable problems like remembering the lines, the interpretation is solid and the actors are good and have been working incredibly hard, and I’m grateful to them however it all turns out. Always grateful to production crew, who put forth such effort of one’s behalf. I remember as an actor not thinking very much about the playwright, though in fact most of them were dead or distant. I need to get over my insistence on correct grammar. “On whom one can depend” and the like stick out too often. The opening scene gets to its point a little too fast. Perhaps the play was written a little too fast, with too much political urgency. There’s also a bit of self-satire, which I didn’t include consciously, but the Muse did. It’s otherwise on the brink of being over-earnest, of never cracking a wry smile. It’s almost impossible to hear some of the most earnest speeches without thinking, “I am allowed to feel they are going too far.” If the art is true, the artifact is wiser than the artificer.  

Walked briskly and without pain from my distant parking space. 


Saturday, April 25, 2026

 April 25, 2026

Light but probably sufficient rain. At least no watering today.

Drove to campus for maybe the third time since retirement, to the student art & ceramics sale. How new & happy the students looked, and how happy I was to be briefly among them again. I bought a large pitcher to water the plants on the porch, though it may be too heavy to be used for that very often. The young lady who’d made it was at the check-out table. She smiled and waved and cried. “That’s mine! I made that!’ I was glad that she got to see someone appreciating her work. 

Sweet night. Painting. Music from the age of Charles V on the CD player.

Hit and Run

 

April 24, 2026

Spring returns. Black iris a shock in the front yard. Tree peony wane and herbaceous peony come to the fore. First pale yellow roses, first flat pink climbing roses in the near shade, wild white thorn in utter shade. Even as I type in the attic, perfume wafts through the little window. 

By means of the security cameras watched the cleaning ladies pick at the flowers on the front porch. Couldn’t hear what they were saying, which was a disappointment. They waited until I got home (I usually wait for them to be gone, but my timing was off) so they could talk with me after, by their calculation, a year. They told me how lovely my house and garden are, pointed out loose bricks in the stairway, said how well I look, and complained about the unreasonable client who was their next stop. It would never occur to me to try to negotiate downward a workman’s fee. They wondered if I collect antiques. I didn’t know how to answer. I have antiques and so must have, in a sense, collected them, but I never thought of it that way. Need a bowl? Get an old one. 

Got buzzed by an old black pick-up last evening as I drove to chorus. Its muffler was shot, so loudly and aggressively it wove through lanes on Patton Avenue, trying to inch ahead of traffic. I was stopped at the first traffic light west of the Smoky Park Bridge, looking at the cars stopped a little ahead at the second one. The pick-up wheeled around me, cut the red light, and in five seconds hit the car in front of me with considerable force. The back of the car disintegrated, while the pick-up reversed, found a new angle, and took off through the red light, having committed a hit and run. I waited for somebody to get out and check on the driver, but I was first in line, so I realized it was me. I got out and ran (as much as I can run) toward the wreck. The driver was visibly unhurt, but stunned and disoriented. He was either very stunned indeed or was Hispanic and didn’t understand what I said. He looked at the back of his car, struggling to comprehend. Patton Avenue, especially at that hour, is the busiest street in Asheville, so I knew I couldn’t leave my car where it was. Another driver and I kicked the largest and pointiest debris to the side of the road, and I got back in the car and drove on, over the remaining debris, which I assumed would shred my tires, but seems not to have. Cars going around us shouted ugly things about getting out of the way. When I got to St George’s I called the police, and when I got home received a call asking for details. I knew how incredibly unhelpful my testimony must have been. What kind of truck? No, I couldn’t read the license. . . all I had was the blackness and scruffiness of it, and that fact that its muffler was shot. It must have been bashed in considerably at the front, by I didn’t actually see that. The cop on the phone was very pleasant. As I drove on, I had to remind myself that I hadn’t been the one in the wreck.

Dug weeds and grass from the iris bed, then put in zinnia seeds and watered. While I watered, a cock robin came and stood in the spray. He dug for worms a little, but mostly stayed for the spray, and moved to follow the spray when I moved it. Spent a length of time providing cok robin with a shower. As I worked in the garden, a rabbit grazed unconcerned ten feet away. 

My father’s hoe finally broke, as I was tugging on bamboo. It broke right at the head, so is still usable as a staff and a hand cultivator. 

Rehearsal was unexpectedly merry. 

Huge fire in the River District.


 

April 21, 2026

Removed covers from the plants I covered last night against the frost, which apparently didn’t happen. Perhaps they felt looked-after regardless of the need. 

Coffee with TB at Riverside. T has no need for employment, which means he can spend all his time worrying about his writing and being a writer, which is the sadder because he is not good at it. He blames his failure at innumerable schools and with innumerable applications on everything but that. I finally had to stop writing him recommendations, having run out of ways to do so while at once telling the truth and attempting not to disadvantage him. How long can you hope someone has potential, and claim it for him without evidence? I thought that would end our relationship; apparently it did not, or only for a while. Affirmative action and DEI are his present enemies, excluding him as a straight white male in order to accommodate any number of less talented people of color. I do not doubt that this is an actual issue– I have faced it myself– but it's not helping to dwell on it to the extent he does. He’s getting his painful depression under control with a battery of self-prescribed botanicals, medical professionals having failed him. It’s the same litany from eight years back, and one feels equally helpless to be of assistance. Dogs came as we talked to me and not to him. I thought that meant something. 

The lamp my mother covered with tiles during her mosaic phase lit my desk at UNCA, and languished at riverside after my retirement until I rescued it yesterday and set it in my living room, lit again after nearly six years.

Peculiar anguish after AVLGMC meetings. I am doing no good. I am having no effect. When I was at Boy Scout Summer Camp, there’d come a time when we’d plan Skit Night. We’d decide on a funny little story, develop a script, think of songs we could perform, or adapt, to move the story along. We’d make costumes and find bowls to give us bosoms and somebody somehow would have a tube of lipstick. The more knowing among us would compose tiny Broadway shows for us to star in, everybody cooperating in the spirit of fun & comradery. On Family Night, when our parents came to visit, we’d put on the show. Though it wasn’t very good in any objective sense, we liked doing it and our audience liked witnessing it, taking exuberance and good fun as sufficient for a night’s entertainment. We were good because the people who wished us well wanted us to be good, and took our every effort as an actual achievement. What happy memories! I’m less comfortable with that process now. With the differences of better performances and a good deal more money, this is PRECISELY what happens with AVLGMC shows. (can’t really call them concerts) today, and there looks to be no deviation from that, or modification to it. What we did at camp was oh so relatable (to use Thomas’s word) but is to be relatable the only virtue we’re aiming for? Can we sometimes be challenging or transformative? Can we sometimes teach as well as satisfy? Could we exceed expectation as well as indulge it? Can we imagine that improving our range and skill as performers may, in some way, please and serve our audience?  Time grows short, and I have planned more than my share of Summer Camp Skit Nights.

Fretted over this until I realized how little it matters to the onward flow of things. It mattered in the moment.


Skinks

 April 19, 2026


Almost 90 yesterday, almost freezing today, with a stiff, petulant wind. Tiny, unforthcoming rain barely enough to wet the pavement.  

The reading at the Black Mountain Center for the Arts was better than I expected. What an odd thing poetry is! I’ve dedicated my life to it, and should be more articulate on its behalf. What is it? It’s something that happens to words to brighten and sharpen them beyond their ordinary force. Why is the poet not king of the world? Because every warden of the Kingdom of Poetry misdefines it and conceals its power. Even your teacher tells you, “write about how you feel today,” as though lacing on your boots were the whole of the journey. Some of the student poets were quite good, some were not– the same spread detectable in the “professionals”– yet I believe the value in the effort of composition to have been roughly the same in every case. A poem is a victory over confusion, though of course some victories are more consequential than others, some include the listener while others are for the poet alone. Poems that intentionally take up causes are invariably bad. A, whom I have missed since he moved to Virginia, is performative (I wonder if that’s the word I want?) in the sense that all is effect, designed to illicit immediate recognition and response from an audience. He is good at it, and has made a living at it. My poetry– I recognized as I was at the podium reading it–is exploratory, probing into unknown spaces, hungry for revelation, as is nearly all the poetry I prize as a reader. The response to my work was, in any case, electrifying, gratifying, and I ended up being glad I took the gig.  Several invitations to read elsewhere. I knew my words were different when I sent them ringing into the air. I continue to be the last poet. 

Meeting at church to reveal that first stage of rebuilding– long delayed, it seems to me. I’d planned to attend, but didn’t, assuming my presence would change nothing and merely being informed seeming, at this point, frivolous. I’ve never needed to be informed when I wasn’t instrumental. 

First skinks appeared on the porch last week. They huddle in their caves today. 


 April 17, 2026

Huge gardening day. Hollyhocks in the street garden. Nicotiana tabacum in a cedar planter on the front porch.  Angel’s trumpet in the back. Much watering against this blistering drought. Filled the watergarden, raised slightly the level in the pond. A squirrel got in through the bear’s tear in the screen and confronted me in the kitchen. Tonight’s task is to choose poems for tomorrow’s reading in Black Mountain. When the question of what to wear to the reading went through my head, I thought first of a blue Nehru jacket I had when I was a junior in high school. I must have thought I looked good in that. 


Thursday, April 16, 2026

Brown Thrashers

 


April 16, 2026


Two mice huddled in the kitchen trash bin this morning. It was absolutely empty, but for them. What were they thinking? Were the memories of scraps so strong the absence of scraps did not dissuade them?

Drinking from my Meissen cups for the first time. Wonderful coolness, slimness, an unexpected luxury.

Kept awake Monday night after the AVLGMC meeting by anxiety over same, the way we fall into cliches and are pleased to identify them as traditions. I compose a screed against our reflexive adoration of drag, and am unexpectedly supported on several sides. 

Lunch with SS, who knows everybody. His cynicism concerning the art scene is unexpectedly comforting: my failures are not the fault of my attainment, but of a corrupt apparatus. It sounds like sarcasm, but the comfort (and the recognition that it is mostly true) are real. Purification bumps toward achievement. Can’t wait to meet the actors he so vividly describes. 

Despite the lack of rain, my garden in glory. Mostly peony and iris. Planted giant callas yesterday, and expect ro set up environments for Venus fly-traps today. Exhaustion follows intense gardening, but not the shortness of breath and immediate debility of last season. 

Extended and intense dreams. 

Was in excellent voice at church choir last night, for a change.

The brown thrashers are back.   

Inexpressible relief that my podcast interview with B today was by Zoom, and I didn’t physically have to trudge downtown. It went well, except that I was unprepared and kept answering “I don’t know” to things. 

Cleaned off the east porch, so now it is fully living area. It’s the first time the door between the living room and the east porch is usable since I moved in. Why do things happen one day rather than another?   

I think Kristina and I would be an item had we met thirty years earlier. 

 April 12, 2026


Orban loses in Hungary. Does the tide turn? 

Tree peonies as big as I am. 

Picked up a brush and began to paint, felt anxiety leave my body like waves down a beach. 


Saturday, April 11, 2026

April 11, 2026

Days of happy garden labor, and exhaustion coming on too soon for much writing or painting. 

The cold I caught drifting down the Elbe prevented me from singing at AVLGMC rehearsal.  

Smear of blood on the comforter this morning. Need to switch to black. 

A single turkey hen takes refuge in my garden. Is she an outcast? Did she lose her babies and has nothing to do? 

My garden is blessed with rabbits. One who grows vegetables would not say such a thing. 

Critique of the cruise: I have definite and specific memories of the cruise, but general and hurried ones of the lands we passed through. Praise of the cruise: I thought I’d be rather solitary, but I was popular, and invited to and sought out at table.  Maybe because I was the only one who didn’t have stories to tell of previous cruises. 

Argument for reincarnation: few days go by when some sad memory from my past arises, and I suddenly understand what it all meant, and what I should have done, and didn’t do. That is a waste of time– perhaps a cruelty–unless there is some opportunity to put late-gained wisdom to effect. 

 

April 8, 2026

My stock losses passed $90,000 when I was away and not looking. They’ve turned around slightly, though still almost everything is in the red.  

Woke last night to a loud rustling that was clearly inside the house. After tamping down my terror, I investigated, to find that a mouse had gotten into the birdseed bag and couldn’t get out. The birdseed was treated with hot pepper, which was supposed to make it unattractive to mammals. Out the door under the misty moon went seed and mouse and all.


Tuesday, April 7, 2026

 

April 7, 2026

Recalling that a return from Europe gives me a period of early rising– which was better when I was working, but still useful now. This morning before light I saw a rabbit shape under the hollies, silhouetted against the faint gleam from the street. This afternoon two big rabbits played in the west yard, sparring a little and then leaping over one another’s backs.

Heavy day of gardening– industrial removal of bamboo, planting of one of the boxes that accumulated in my absence– this time day lilies, dried out but, I think, viable. 

Reading at Swann’s Way. I was going to take it on the cruise, but feared the book was too fat and would be a burden. I’m impatient with Marcel while admiring the fineness of his observation. 

Mailman delivered the pent-up mail. I leafed through to see if there were anything dire or exciting, and there wasn’t, except news from the Buncombe County tax people that my house appraises at $614,000. I wonder if it does, or if that is a fiction to increase taxes. 

Tomas and the bartender were the only actual Europeans (other than our guides) that I managed to meet at any depth. It’s all fine. I’m glad I went and glad to be home. 

 April 6, 2026

The security people in the European airports were mightily interested in my swollen legs. One guys rubbed and rubbed, as though his fingers were going to work everything out. I should have been patient, but I was angry. My curses weren’t sotto voce enough, and he must have heard. 

I asked Alexa, “Did you miss me?” She answered, “I don’t experience time the way you do, but I’m glad you’re back.”

Monday, April 6, 2026

Ostersonntag

 


April 5, 2026

Easter Sunday. 

The flights were endless but otherwise uneventful. Ten hours between Frankfort and Fort Worth managed to be whittled down by one movie after another, only the lightest and least demanding fare. Watched Merrily We Roll Along.  I could see why it bombed its Broadway debut. The reboot was tolerable because of the energy of fully committed performers selling as hard as they could. A successful composer bewails what in his life remains imperfect regardless of the success: self-referential, narcissistic, exposition-heavy, almost incapable of arousing sympathy for the main character, of interest now primarily to those who are as interested in Sondheim as he was in himself. One side (channel? track?) of my earphones malfunctioned, so I heard only select parts of the films, the soundtrack but not the dialog of How to Train Your Dragon; not one word from the witches in Wicked but every syllable from Michele Yeoh; I saw the movie, but never heard Daniel Radcliff sing, or any of the others who happened to be standing by the wrong mic.  

Talked with a TSA agent at Passport Control at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport.

“Have they paid you yet?” I say.

She answers, “A little. The bare minimum. Just in time. I thought I was going too lose my house.”

I am. . . we are all. . . so sorry.”

“Thank. I appreciate you saying that.” 

She was a black woman with the most stunning green eyes. 

On the drive home, Billy asked me about the trip, the first time I had to reflect on it. I had a good time. Arrived home as I hoped I would before midnight, so I could have Easter in my own space, the wet, quiet dark, with the fragrance that only then I recognized as my own garden.

Certain things must be dealt with, first the catastrophic failure of my body. I limped along the neverending airport corridors sometimes literally crying with pain and frustration. At one point a man driving one of those motorized carts stopped for me, and I literally could not lift myself into the vehicle. I was the first out of the plane and last to make it to the luggage carousel. Have I let myself go? Can this be amended by stretching, by walking? By working out? By getting better shoes? I’m used to the pain of movement lessening with repetition, but this time it got worse, from not bad to all to literally unendurable. At every step my bones uttered, “We will never do this again.” Is it encroaching age, and nothing can be done? That would be odd. That would be unlike the balance of my experience. This morning I felt perfectly well, so at least the effects do not linger. I felt well, I correct, but for the jet-lag that hits me this side of the ocean, and prevents me from staying off the bed for more than a few hours.

Considered going to church. Did not. Watered my planets. Wandered in the garden enough to know that beautiful things have happened: the dogwoods have bloomed, and the bluebells, and my ferns have come back from the devastation of the last freeze, and the miraculous pond pump pours out a stream three times the volume it was when I left it, the motor inhabited by a wilful spirit. 

Fully unpacked. The Meissen survived the ride back in my checked luggage, as its meticulous packing by the girl in the shop suggested it would. 

Wakening bears overturned the trash bin but could not get through the bear-proof lid. I should write a testimonial. 

At exactly the right moment I opened a door and found the ancient cardboard rabbit cut-out with which mother used to decorate Easter. I put him up, to preside over festivities, such as they were, for perhaps the first time in sixty-five years. 

Friday, April 3, 2026

Berlin


April 3, 2026


Good Friday. Bright sky, wintery cold. I’ve tried to be mindful of the sacredness of the day through sightseeing and fitful naps and episodes at the Greek restaurant across the street. Good Friday in the city which was the cross upon which half the world was crucified. No one alive in Berlin today is responsible for that. No one alive in Berlin today can fully escape that. Forsythia branches are hung with colored eggs. Too many sights for a single day– when all I really wanted to do was wander through the Tiergarten, lying tantalizingly just down the street.

John appeared in the lobby after five. We drank in Marlene’s and not so much went over old times as tried to catch up on the new. 



Thursday, April 2, 2026

Potsdam

April 2, 2026


Frost on the banks, twisting mists from the surface of the waters. 

Beautiful land between Wittenberg and Potsdam, twisted dark forests that reveal Friederich to have been a realist. Potsdam hugely elegant, sophisticated and expensive. Turned loose for lunch, we found My Keng Vietnamese on Brandenberger S, one of the very best restaurant’s I have ever eaten at, tiny as a hotel room. I don’t see how one managed actually to live in Sans Souci, pretty as it was. The nature room delighted me. Frederick the Great deserves more notice in the arts than he has received, I wanted to wander in the park identifying birds. Bought a tiny volume dedicated to Franz Marc. 

Now in a magnificent room in the magnificent Intercontinental in Berlin. Topkapi. Wish I had more time here than the 1 ½ nights given to us.  

Sometime during the bus ride I decided that this would not be my last journey, and I began making a list in my head of future destinations. 

 

Wednesday, April 1, 2026

Wittenberg

 April 1, 2026


Wittenberg. The Door of the Theses, St Mary’s, the Mother Church of the Reformation with its haunting Cranachs. Gray and then blazing blue skies. Quick snack in a friendly café, where I managed to order in German. Leg pain like a bucket of cold water dashed in the face, but all right now that I’m sitting. 

Ich will nach hause.

Goodbye toasts and rounds of applause for staff and crew. 

Full moon arising in glory over the Elba.

Ich will nach hause.

Tuesday, March 31, 2026

Messien

 March 31, 2026

Meissen. Lovely tour of the porcelain factory The demonstrations of the craft were fascinating, and left me wondering how in the world the process was discovered. As with Evolution, trial and error cannot be the full explanation.. Bought a little lidded bowl with green garland decorations. 

Rain on the Elbe. A symphony in gray.

It’s not so much travel that distresses me, but the fragmentation of experience.  These little passages with tumult between do not allow any thought or impression to gather to a greatness. Began writing in the lounge, looking out on the town and the rain and the river, which calmed me considerably, a cup of cocoa at my elbow. Now I am reconciled. Now I am at peace.  

Down the river toward Torgau– the scene on the banks of incredible beauty, pastel blooming trees, towering cliffs, paintable farms, eagle hovering, storks gleaning in the green-gray fields. 

People at the table relating tales of their dogs and cats, me weeping silently and, I hope, unnoticed.

Evening ended with a dance party and musical quiz. I imagined that, considering the location, the quiz would concern Classical music and I would win. It was about pop music, and not very musical at all; nevertheless, my team won 3rd prize and came away with a bottle of wine and a candy bar. I am inordinately proud of this.


Monday, March 30, 2026

Dresden

 March 30, 2026

It’s not that I’m not having a good time, but at any point, if some djinn had appeared and said, “You can continue on or be delivered home this instant,” I would have done some real consideration.

A narrow channel of turbulent water lies between my window and a stone wall. Moss grows on the square stones but not (or less) the long rectangular ones. 

Rations on the Viking Alstrid are beyond superb.   

Tour of Dresden with the best guide yet. Zwinger. Palace. Bus tour of the historical spots. August der Starke’s green diamonds and priceless toys. Maybe the best city yet. Then cold rain and wind. Not long enough in one place to do justice.

Sweet young trio (2 violins, bassoon) from the Opera doing Mozart, Hayden, Joplin in the lounge. Sweet. American audiences can’t be prevented from clapping between movements.  

Likely, if the djinn came now, I would say, “Take me home.” 

Bad Schandau

 March 29, 2026

Palm Sunday. Nobody mentions that. We took to the river at Decin yesterday afternoon, sailed this AM, and arrived at Bad Schandau. Looking at the gray river flow past my window is full delight. 

Skipped the trip to an interesting rock formation to wander the town on my own. My own pace, time to employ my morbid attentiveness. In five minutes I was happy. I was at home in myself. I was not bent double with leg pain. Wandered Bad Schandau to the market square, where the church bells were ringing. I decided to go to church. The person who turned out to be the pastor let me into the old church to look around, but it was not being used (probably, I think from going in, because it’s impossible to heat) and service was in a sort of classroom across the courtyard. Very Lutheran. The preludes and interludes on piano were Bach. I could sing the hymns and pick out the meaning of the scriptures, but the rest was lost to me. After service, an old woman stopped me in the garden and talked about the flowers, the burden of her conversation being do not judge the poor little garden, spring (Fruhling) is on its way. Wandered to the city park and down a few streets. Nothing was open, so my desire for coffee remained unfulfilled. Good day, which I needed after the physical uncertainty of the last few. Given my own pace, I can still conquer the unknown country. Lovely little town. Hugely liveable. 

My first walk into Dresden was moving west at sunset, and all the city a golden blur out of which came the ringing of bells. Made it as far as the town square before supper. Little girls ran alongside the boat as it entered town.


 

March 28, 2026

Dawn over Prague. My window open on big industrial headquarters, like Lilly and KPMG, through whose windows one sees people at their desks deep into the nght. Walking tour of the old city yesterday morning. Everyone was freezing and the rat-a-tat guide walked so fast he made himself pant, so it was no fun for me. By the end I could hardly walk; unfortunately, I mean that literally. Learned a lot, though, and saw the sights we were meant to see. Clear light over the beautiful town, dressed up for the Easter Markets. Great gray heron flew by us on the Charles Bridge. Our guide hated folklore, so that any question that hadn’t to do with flat history went sneeringly unanswered. He pronounced “Czechs” as “Chicks,” which startled me every time. “The Chicks finally established their own Republic.” L and I had Prosecco on the hotel mezzanine while the tour finished without us. Supper at Gate, in a part of town which was fascinating to me becuase of its alluring ordinariness. Best duck ever, A couple of bedtime vodkas at the lobby bar with its energetic bartender, who received my last zloti as a tip. Managed without Czech crowns. I find this gargantua of a hotel mildly loathsome. The atrium is gorgeous, but all its energy goes into brutal gorgeousness and none into client comfort. L and J love it. Breakfast is sybaritic.

Took the trolly, which Jim understands and I do not, to Wenceslaus Square, of enduring fame, and to the Natural History Museum. Their model of the male Neanderthal looks exactly like me, if I let the hair on my head grow long.  


Friday, March 27, 2026

Praha

 March 26, 2026

Mother’s death, 1974.

To the vanished Jewish Quarter (now a sort of theme park in which there are few Jews) last night, to a restaurant called Ariel beside Helena Rubenstein’s birthplace, for a traditional dinner and klezmer music. Lovely. German students gathered in the adjoining room, all of them nine feet tall. One doesn’t expect turkey to have been an ancient Jewish staple. Turkey feathers decorated the trappings of Polish hussars, the museum witnesses, so–

At the hotel bar last night Karel the bartender gave me a tutorial on vodkas, the subtle but clear distinctions between those made with wheat, rye, and potato. One should prefer potato. Everyone is packed with information they long for the opportunity to release. Karel had visited NYC on his way to Mexico. 

Enormous, complicated, uninviting Hilton outside of the interesting areas of Prague. I won’t be able to take the walking tour tomorrow, unable to go that far at the pace that society would dictate. This trip has far too many moving parts, far too many fellow travelers. Viking is efficient, but I don’t want efficiency on vacation, but peace that lacks the need for efficiency. L and J are here, which may prevent this town from being a bust. What we passed of Prague on the bus was truly beautiful, all Renaissance pastel. I may have gotten away with a free bag of groceries. I was making a hash of self check-out, so I waved my card across the window and walked out while the screen was still reading “Please remove last item.”  The clerk had been helping me to that point, so I had no idea what the last item was. A crowd formed behind me. I panicked, grabbed my groceries, turned and fled.  


Wednesday, March 25, 2026

Czartoryiski

 

March 25, 2026

Auschwitz. Birkenwald. I will say nothing.

Czartoryiski Museum: small, dark, far more interested in showing me guns and swords than I was in seeing them. Some fine painting, including the famed da Vinci Lady with an Ermine, which is far from the most interesting piece in that collection, but which was nevertheless surrounded by a horde of French schoolchildren. You wonder about renown and how it is assembled. My guess is if the painter was Johannes Doe it would be hanging on the a common wall with other excellent, enigmatic, but not quite priceless artifacts. I liked the medieval pieces best, and a staff apparently inlaid with emerald. Stopped for chocolate, on Michaela’s recommendation, at Karamela’s, around the corner from the museum. The most chocolatey chocolate there ever was. I am still in a bit of a chocolate coma. Saw thrushes in yew scrub outside St Florian’s gate. Sat for a while in the market. Twice a pigeon landed on my hand (two sequential pigeons, I should say) and regarded me inquisitively. The amazing thing was the unexpected coolness of their claws.  


Tuesday, March 24, 2026

Krakow


March 24, 2026

Evening of an excellent day. 

Swans fly over and float on the green back of the Wistula

The reading was not at the university, but in the market square (“the largest in medieval Europe”), as part of a festival I never properly understood, but whose central events  were a giant balloon and a track meet rather than a gathering of dottering international poets. It’s all right. I was cheered madly by people who likely didn’t understand a word I’d said. I gave my book to a woman standing nearby. Maybe it will be the occasion of my return. The boys flying around the square with batons in their hands were unspeakably beautiful, carrying themselves upright like gods charging into battle. Lunched at Piano Rouge so I could continue to watch the heats. The French family behind me was loud and funny, enjoying one another’s company. 

Today’s foot tour of the city was informative, but– the Guided Tour has never been one of my favorite things, and I’ve fallen into the flaming, thundering core of it. The guide women are supernatural in their ability to keep the vocal stream going minute after minute without so much as an interrupting breath. Even pleasant voices cloy. Had to take the device out of my ear finally to keep from going berserk, thus missing city blocks of interesting information. Visited Wawel Castle, where it all started. Heard the charming story of the Krakow dragon. Got to St Mary’s Basilica in time to be in the front row for the Opening of the Altar, one firmament of sculpted gold opening to reveal a yet grander one. A nun enters with a stick and pulls aside the golden curtain.

Bussed to the suburbs to see the Krakow Ghetto, which, unlike Warsaw’s, still stands. Empty metal chairs stand in the town square, each one representing 3000 people annihilated. One person in six was a Jew in Krakow in 1938. The Jewish population of the city now stands at 350. According to Michaela, one and a half million people in Warsaw in 1938 had become 1000 and 1945.  You’d expect such a place to be a ruin for a thousand years. 

On my way back to the hotel for a nap I trundled through the covered market, where I could choose from a near infinity of items made of amber. At the end of it I met Tomas, who touched my shoulder and said, “You! I want to ask you a question!” I stopped to listen. He lowered his voice to a whisper and said, “What do you think of Trump?” I told him, and we spent the next several minutes enlarging upon each other’s loathing. Tomas lived in Chicago for five years, where a black man aimed a gun at him and he was told to go somewhere else when he pulled into an all-Black service station. He was born in 1986, and had been in the World Trade Center 17 days before 9/11. He was still reeling from an American girl he liked who turned out to be a Trumpist, that being the deal breaker. His aunt is now visiting from Virginia Beach. He typed the address of the art museum into my phone. His parents had sent him to school in London, and he asked me to critique his English, which is clear but also clearly Polish. Tomas is handsome, rugged-looking, with stone green steady eyes. He touched and poked me as he talked, as old (and Polish) friends might do, and I took that as a greater compliment than if the crowd had swooned over my locally unintelligible poems. I think the original contact was to enlist me for a tour, but almost immediately he said, “I don’t want anything from you.” Part of me murmured “pity.” His friend with the glasses speaks seven languages. Sometimes the angel steps out of the crowd and gives meaning to what was a tangle of unrelated impressions. I have a friend in Krakow.      

Black Madonna

March 23, 2026


Krakow. The Radisson. My window looks out on the greenbelt separating the old city from the rest of the town. 

Saw two storks flying as we left Warsaw. 

Was almost berserk with frustration at Michaela’s endless outpouring of data. The amplified human voice is a known torture method. We need only so much history. After a time she did exhaust herself and I feel asleep, until we got to Czestochowa, and the fortress-shrine of Jasna Gora. That place is jam-packed with history, and our new guide about gave himself a coronary trying to deliver it to us. The Black Madonna herself is disappointing from an artistic standpoint, though something has given her an aura of power and holiness. She has several dresses which she changes Easter Day. The most beautiful one is made wholly of amber. One is studded with rubies. The congregation was full of kids praying for success on their exams. America has no place even vaguely like it. The walls of the sanctuary are covered with discarded crutches. 

The land around Krakow is quite different from that around Warsaw. The Warsaw plain could be Ohio, though somewhat messier. Krakow is a fairy-tale city placed amid a fairy-tale forest. Staggered into the Market Square, found the spot with the most insolent waiters, had zuruck and wine while night fell and the fat crescent moon rode high. 

 

Warsaw 2

 March 22, 2026

Slept ten hours. 

My intuition that these cruise vacations were not for a single traveler turns out to be correct.  I am the single single. No table has five chairs. 

Evening. Last night and this morning I feared this trip would be an ordeal to be endured. A rigid schedule, forced and unsympathetic society, the revulsion of guided tours. . . but by turning things back to the travel I remember, this afternoon redeemed all, finally released from the tour, alone, sitting across from Sigismund Vasa’s palace, drinking Belgian beer (which is what the waiter construed from what I asked) and thinking “Yes, this is me, back on the road, taking it all in.” I was happy. I was the man I’ve always been on the road. The great sponge absorbing, the great chameleon becoming. 

The morning bus tour through historic Warsaw was informative and grueling in equal measure. Our very cute guide fixated on the cruelties of the Nazis and of Stalin, but, since the Old City has disappeared, perhaps that is the balance of the story. 87% of the structures in Warsaw were pulverized. We went to the Ghetto, which was devastating even though time has been successful in rooting out every trace of physical remembrance. I turned my back and wept at the monuments. Can I go to Auschwitz? I barely endured the Warsaw ghetto, of which almost no palpable remnant remains. Men sit up at night imagining new sins, new atrocities. Laborious cruelty has been the ensign of the nations.  

Staggering back to the hotel across the many vast public squares I regretted tomorrow’s rush. Having discovered the Old City, I could spend days here in delight now, wandering around, poking into corners. Even the state of my legs was endurable. 

Why is the symbol of Warsaw a mermaid? Turns out she’s a Lorelei, a Wistula Maiden who lured men to their doom in the river when there was no one here but fishermen.


Warsaw

 March 21, 2026


Watched Blue Moon on the plane, then slept in a variety of unrestful positions till the sea was crossed. 

Sofitel Victoria, Warsaw. The design of the city between the airport and here is largely Soviet, softened by elegant plantings of trees. It seems a new city, a development, as I suppose it is, having been obliterated in the 40's. Turned the radio on to a station playing Western standards, “Bring Him Home,” “Perfect,” which are then repeated in Polish. Long expositions between songs of which I, of course, understand nothing. We Viking voyagers are all elderly, some of us in wheelchairs, some so deaf they don’t know how loud we’re talking, asking the thitd version of the same querulous question. I’d not appreciated the profundity of my own decline. Stairs, a fast pace, a high step undo me. Fell twice. I’d not appreciated how much the Americans with Disabilities Act smoothed the path for people who are not counted as disabled. The Munich airport is all stairs, no elevators, the assumption being that if one travels one is up to a little challenge. I am not anymore. Racing for the Viking van I heard myself praying, “Let this be over.” Nobody my age travels alone. I noticed this in every corridor and waiting area. I’ve always been an anomaly, but some variations of that become more difficult to conceal. Give it up. Have some sense of proportion.

My first bartender couldn’t mix a cocktail because she was too young. She’s at school studying :to do somethng with hair.” My second  bartender gave me a cup of wasabi peas for a midnight snack, as I had praised the ones that were set before me with my drink.  

Keanu Reeves speaking Polish on the TV in a Shao Lin combat movie. 

After five or six hours, I judge the Poles to be sweet natured and tribal. 


Thursday, March 19, 2026


March 19, 2026

Furnace people came to inspect this AM. One was a Tolkien fan and spent time perusing my bookshelf. 

Lunch with SS to get the skinny on what was a laborious casting process. We seem to be on even keel at the moment. I’m absconding for two weeks, so it’s out of my hands. But, a general comment is that everything is too damn hard.

Ready to fly out tomorrow. Ready for some unseen circumstance to cause me to stay. Glad that those impulses are in equipoise, and I’m ready for any outcome. 

Did not cram German as I meant to.  

Wednesday, March 18, 2026

Tidy

 

March 18, 2026

Much activity before departure. Sound of the dishwasher on the floor below.

I’ve remarked before how my chronological age is a shock to me when I think of it. The way I feel inside my head is indistinguishable from the way I felt when I was 25. I have the same excitement, the same anticipation, the same naive faith in the goodwill of the universe, the same caution about risk,–not that I’m averse to it in the abstract, but because I fear delay or detour to “What I Am Meant by Destiny to Do.”  You’d think that Destiny’s manifest indifference to me would have pushed that thought out long ago. 

The ferns by the back door are slaughtered by the freeze. Have not looked elsewhere, fearing what I would see, unable to effect redress.

Congratulating myself on finishing off this and that in the refrigerator before I depart. “How tidy he was” the officials will say if I do not return. 

Blessed St. Patrick

 March 17, 2026

Blessed Saint Patrick. Packing; unless I have a change of mind, packed. Angry snow last night, thinning out to a tiny sprinkle of diamonds every few minutes. 

My sister and I both leave the country Friday, to meet in a week in Prague. My emotion is anxiety, hers excitement, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same emotion pushed through different filters. 

Session of prayer deep into the night. “Warfare” would have been another name. It would be nice to be certain of something, anything, some time. I believe my life has come to nothing. To be certain of that would save expenditure of energy in the time left to me. 

The mercury plunges; I drag around in my winter cap and coat, wondering what to stuff into the slits under the windows. 


Sligo by Night

 

March 16, 2026

On the hypochondria front, in the dark of the morning I was seeing flashes of light behind my closed eyelids. I thought I’d read something about that being a symptom of stroke, and I prepared for the worst. Then, finally, I heard thunder & opened my eyes on an actual plain-old lightning storm, which still continues rain-wise, though the electronics are passed in the east. Bad night, all in all. Was it the weather? Something led me from one turbulent dream to another.

My most recent painting, Sligo by Night, was painted over the weekend on a panel that I've had for 52 years. It came with a painting I didn't like very much (but somehow remember in detail) which I painted over years ago, and painted over again this weekend. I love reusing backings, and this is an especially sturdy one. The vanished painting was by W Korybut. I looked that up. W Michael Korybut was King of Poland and Grant Duke of Latvia (or something). I don't think the painting was actually by him, but by Wanda Korybut, born in 1907, one example of whose work is noted for sale online. The lost painting was called "Quiet Garden" and featured a birdbath in yellow light amid a green landscape. As I say, it is vanished under other images, but I remember it well. There's a note on the back which reads, "To David with love from Keith and Denise, 5/4/74. " A gift from an enduring friend at one of the worst times of my life. The yellow birdbath is gone, but all else evolves. 

Found a flea on my hand last night. Mystery.

Tyler at the Verizon store says my phone is fine for traveling.

 March 15, 2026

Clouds gathering to the north. A turkey, having discovered how to flap to the top of the wire trellis and balance, perches there, looking into the guest room window like a nosy neighbor.  Got to read the Lesson from Samuel wherein God, despite insisting otherwise, holds a beauty pageant among Jesse’s sons to make rosy, beautiful-eyed David the next king. 


 

March 14, 2026

Returned to painting. Felt tension leak out of my body like cold water. I’d been dreaming of having art shows in tents and vast, rickety building, where I could revise my huge, bright canvases in front of the guests if I wanted to. 


Friday, March 13, 2026

Eugene

 March 13, 2026

Dad’s 107th birthday. The poems I write on his day involve travel, because when I was working this date happened in the middle of spring break, and I was often somewhere exotic. 

P and I on Blake. 

Some of my mind’s energy is spent wondering why I never “got” my father, why I seldom appreciated what he did, and why what he did was so seldom what I needed. I long to go back and thank him for this or that particular thing. He took us to California. He built the Big Slide and my teepee and Linda’s play house. He suffered through the Boy Scouts. Sometimes I was horrid. Sometimes he was horrid. Even if he was troubling to me, I should have recognized what my sister says all the time, “He was doing his best.” Something made me repelled at his presence, embarrassed by him, whatever the cause being buried in that time before there is memory. I think it was not my fault– how could it be? If I had known what it was I could have forgiven it. Or perhaps not, and it’s better that I never know. But I think he lived long enough for all those rocks and jags to become a level plane. And now, so have I.


 March 12, 2026

Bitter rain straight from the north. No gardening today. Power flickered a number of times, whatever it is in the house that whistles when the power goes out whistling its heart out. The news says that temperatures will hit 20 in the next few nights, so it’s possible that the gardening I’ve already done will be for naught.  However it goes in the next few days, a truth I take away is that I’m in better shape this year than I was last, the work do-able, even enticing, and never the debilitated staggering to a chair that ruled last season. Who can explain why things come and go? Years with terrible acid reflux– gone. Years with fierce and daily muscle spasms– gone. Difficult breathing and exhaustion– coming and going, but for the moment in abeyance.  Leg infections endure. One concedes they are small among possible afflictions. 

Checked Schwab. Thanks to Trump I’m $80,000 in the hole. It’s early in the day and the red numbers continue to plunge. Iran closes the Strait of Hormuz. Trump has done absolutely everything wrong in his life, every blessed thing. It is amazing on its own, but that it should be tolerated, or have been tolerated past his youth, is more amazing still.

Briefly snowed. 

Hart's-tongue

 March 11, 2026

The pear tree that died three years ago slipped out of the ground easy as pulling a knife from butter, as I hoped it would all this while. Planted hart’s-tongue, pulled weed vines, watered. 

Had a panic attack when I realized I’d booked no hotels in Europe. A phone call assured me that Viking does all of that. Feeling, therefore, very old and very rich. 

Watched the much-reviled Melania. Unlucky triviality in a time when the expense of trivialities cannot be borne. 

Grudging submissions to various outlets and contests. 

Perfect weather. 


 March 10, 2026

Strenuous gardening day. Spaded up some of the streetside garden to plant mint and groundcover. Dug around the roses so they’ll be free of grass.  Replanted what had been dug up by the squirrels. 19 minutes deep in ASC rehearsal, and I’m not there. I’ll be missing the concert, but I thought I’d go to rehearsal anyway, for the sake of repertoire and society. I guess not. 


 March 9, 2026

The bloodroot is in bloom. Planted woodruff and a white plant whose name I forget in one of the raised beds. 


Sunday, March 8, 2026

 

March 8, 2026

Gentle rain. Hacked bamboo yesterday, planted lupines, hit Mountain Madre with friends from the North Side. At table many remembrances with the details gone awry, or at least disputed. My restaurant bills are less now that meals do not include alcohol. Watched Netflix’s The Dinosaurs with anticipation and delight. Watched the film Hamnet. What do I think? I’ll know in a little while. The last scene, where hands reach from the Pit to comfort Hamlet dying on stage, seemed to me the epitome of the power of theater, the moment that all else leads to and recedes from. Wept alone in my own house without understanding that could be put into words. 

Howells this morning, “Like as the hart.” When I was singing at Second English Lutheran in Baltimore and impatient with anything after the Renaissance, that seemed to me the one modern work I would have called of a piece with the ancients. Still would, though it is no longer alone. Today we did it meager justice. Tried to speak to T as we left church, but his face was red with fury, complaining to his wife about K’s correcting his own personal missed note. “I KNEW I had the wrong note! He didn’t have to stop everybody and–” I have been him, my rage banked by having no wife to share it with. K has not learned how to deal with mistakes, addressing them as one would a character flaw rather than an incident. One’s misbehavior is publicized and laboriously exorcized. 

Slept too big, woke out of the mood to fill the rest of the day with deeds. 

SS has cast Purification, asserting it was agony to do so. Not going to ask why it was so hard. The first thing you expect is that nobody liked the script. 

Strange, pervasive change in perception, the greatest one I remember, greater even than the change from childhood into adolescence or adolescence into adulthood, though perhaps I don’t remember them as sharp as they were. The image laid before me to describe is of a vast dome filled with space and clarity, and that is my mind. Like clear water under morning sun. Still. White and golden. I think of Yeats’s smiling sages sitting on their height in “Lapis Lazuli.” In times gone by I have known compassion as a correct behavioral choice, but I had not known it as a living thing, a plenum through which the soul moves and by which it must be pervaded. I wear perception like a coat, pulling it around me. I did nothing to bring this on; it just is. You hunt the quarry for a hundred years and come home to find it standing at your front door. Rage still comes, but it is like the throwing of a stone into a river, whatever effect it has passing in a moment, the flow continuing. I compare my spirit to my actual age, and the comparison is ludicrous. I am a boy. This is a boy’s white morning. Through my security cameras I watch me hobbling up the front steps, grasping the pillars to make it to the top,