September 6, 2007
Woke yesterday with a tight chest and odd breathing, which I assumed would evolve into a heart attack. Of course it didn’t. It was purely anxiety, which loosened and dissolved in the first few hours of the day. It would be nice to know anxiety over what. With home repairs and going to Ireland, money is an issue, but the response in this case seems much greater than the stimulus. Perhaps my nerves know something that my conscious mind does not. Perhaps my nerves are stupider than my mind, and fear a road which it sees clear and navigable.
Heavy labor in the garden, in any case, resolved and lingering heart attack questions. The overgrown state of things looks more daunting than it really is once you’ve dug in. Emerging from the tangle of squash whose life the drought abbreviated, the eggplants are alive, but exactly the size they were when I planted them this spring. Bonsai eggplant for the urban garden.
Michael Ackley invited me to his apartment for poetry night. Michael has been so tempestuously in love with poetry–outdoing even myself at his age–that I thought I must accept the invitation. There were six of us, Michael, blond Brian, Pan-resembling Owen, Sam (a girl who seemed to be married to someone who wasn’t there), handsome John who was in one of my classes for a week-- and remembered it without too much rancor-- and myself. They were all smokers and the clouds of nicotine made me leave before I otherwise might. This surprised me. I’d thought the tides of public feeling especially among the "elite" had gone against this particular addiction. That aside, and that noted as proof that nothing will ever be perfect, I must say it was a wonderful evening. They had me read "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty," and then we each wrote a poem in response to it. Van Morrision, who is a sort of god to the group, sang softly in the background. The poems were nothing like Shelley, and all very various and idiosyncratic. Owen was the best poet, with a lilting love of play and a sparkling diction he claims he did not derive from Keats. The others wrote very deep and needful-of-hard-listening revelations of their inmost feelings. I wrote of my morning glories. The seriousness and yet the lightness of the task was evident. There was no judgment, no hurry, no expectation, just the wide door of opportunity open. They were using this to ignite themselves as poets. They all had the bodies of sylphs and the minds of Ariels, and I was afraid I’d feel like a lumbering buffalo among them, but their courtesy was perfect, and I felt at home and joyful. Brian was talking of how the task is to kick Derrida and Foucault behind us and write again as though meaning were possible, write again with the conviction that some things are holy. Had I composed the speech it could not have captured my own belief better, nor would it have been so eloquent. To know that such evenings occur–perhaps nightly all around the city, invisible to see–makes this career as a teacher seem like it has come to something after all.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
September 5, 2007
Elderberries drooping nearly to the ground last night, until I finally watered. I supposed since I was going to work now the processes of my garden were on hold.
Writing hard on Or Did a Sea of Fire, an all-female cast play I’m writing in response to the accusation that I don’t write for women.
Elderberries drooping nearly to the ground last night, until I finally watered. I supposed since I was going to work now the processes of my garden were on hold.
Writing hard on Or Did a Sea of Fire, an all-female cast play I’m writing in response to the accusation that I don’t write for women.
September 3, 2007
Woke at 3 this morning. I’d had a turbulent dream, and it was difficult getting back to sleep. The dream was this: I was back at Hiram acting in a play. The play was being put on not in a theater, but in the woods, way over the hill at the bottom of the soccer field. It was lovely rehearsing among the trees. I think I was playing Shylock, or something like that, a good role which required an elaborate costume. One morning I woke up in a unfamiliar room. I asked a blond woman if I were going to be late for rehearsal, and she said I shouldn’t worry about that; I’d had a stroke and my understudy had taken over. I said, "Well, I can do it now. I feel fine." She said that couldn’t happen. While I was unconscious with the stroke someone had been hiking in the woods and come across a little cabin I had made for myself. The cabin contained a cot, some candles, and a large number of dirty books. I’d bought the dirty books all at once because they were cheap and I thought a forest hideaway needed books. I’d stacked them up and never read them, never paid more than a moment’s attention to what they were. But now all anyone could talk about was the guy in the theater who had all those dirty books in the woods. I went to the student union, and everyone as whispering and pointing. I couldn’t think of a way to say to them all, "It meant nothing! I never even opened them!" so I just walked on, silently.
Probably the dream has to do with JF. Today I read over the journal material that offended him so much that I deleted the blog which carried some of it into the world. My defense then was that what I said was true, in the sense of "not a lie," however odd it might appear to people with other perspectives. I would add to that now, after reading the "offending" passages, that it was also perfectly harmless. No reasonable person would have been offended, no one who had a sense of how things strike people who are not oneself, no one with a rudimentary sense of context. I went too far. I bought his point of view without looking back at the material myself. He went too far and I followed him, hoping for a friend. For some reason it never works the other way around.
Cantaria reappeared for the season last night, with a greatly enlarged roster. I was the only bass for years, and now there are seven of us. I thought I was going to resent not being singular, but the fact was that it was comforting, relaxing, a brotherhood rather than a constant solo with the attendant anxieties.
The second category 5 hurricane of a young season steams toward Honduras.
When I walked into the grocery story, Paul McCartney was singing "Let It Be" on the sound system. I burst into tears.
Woke at 3 this morning. I’d had a turbulent dream, and it was difficult getting back to sleep. The dream was this: I was back at Hiram acting in a play. The play was being put on not in a theater, but in the woods, way over the hill at the bottom of the soccer field. It was lovely rehearsing among the trees. I think I was playing Shylock, or something like that, a good role which required an elaborate costume. One morning I woke up in a unfamiliar room. I asked a blond woman if I were going to be late for rehearsal, and she said I shouldn’t worry about that; I’d had a stroke and my understudy had taken over. I said, "Well, I can do it now. I feel fine." She said that couldn’t happen. While I was unconscious with the stroke someone had been hiking in the woods and come across a little cabin I had made for myself. The cabin contained a cot, some candles, and a large number of dirty books. I’d bought the dirty books all at once because they were cheap and I thought a forest hideaway needed books. I’d stacked them up and never read them, never paid more than a moment’s attention to what they were. But now all anyone could talk about was the guy in the theater who had all those dirty books in the woods. I went to the student union, and everyone as whispering and pointing. I couldn’t think of a way to say to them all, "It meant nothing! I never even opened them!" so I just walked on, silently.
Probably the dream has to do with JF. Today I read over the journal material that offended him so much that I deleted the blog which carried some of it into the world. My defense then was that what I said was true, in the sense of "not a lie," however odd it might appear to people with other perspectives. I would add to that now, after reading the "offending" passages, that it was also perfectly harmless. No reasonable person would have been offended, no one who had a sense of how things strike people who are not oneself, no one with a rudimentary sense of context. I went too far. I bought his point of view without looking back at the material myself. He went too far and I followed him, hoping for a friend. For some reason it never works the other way around.
Cantaria reappeared for the season last night, with a greatly enlarged roster. I was the only bass for years, and now there are seven of us. I thought I was going to resent not being singular, but the fact was that it was comforting, relaxing, a brotherhood rather than a constant solo with the attendant anxieties.
The second category 5 hurricane of a young season steams toward Honduras.
When I walked into the grocery story, Paul McCartney was singing "Let It Be" on the sound system. I burst into tears.
Monday, September 3, 2007
September 2, 2007
Two mockingbirds play in water gathered in an abandoned toy in Caroline’s yard. I have supplied them three clean birdbaths. I understand, though. One always prefers the brook in the forest to the blue-bright swimming pool. But when I looked, goldfinches were at the front birdbath, yellow against the orange of the nasturtiums. My garden is sad, spent, ragged, and I am at a loss to know what to do. Perhaps it is just the season.
Lovely party at Jack and Leland’s, conversation and too many cosmopolitans under a sky too murky for stars. Chall gave me two boxed books of 19th century American poetry. I’ve been reading Freneau, unable to believe how bad he is, unable to credit what was taken for poetry once upon a time on the frontier. They must have been so hungry for it they adopted anything that had a rhyme. A few pages away, the rushing Niagara of Whitman silences all.
Two mockingbirds play in water gathered in an abandoned toy in Caroline’s yard. I have supplied them three clean birdbaths. I understand, though. One always prefers the brook in the forest to the blue-bright swimming pool. But when I looked, goldfinches were at the front birdbath, yellow against the orange of the nasturtiums. My garden is sad, spent, ragged, and I am at a loss to know what to do. Perhaps it is just the season.
Lovely party at Jack and Leland’s, conversation and too many cosmopolitans under a sky too murky for stars. Chall gave me two boxed books of 19th century American poetry. I’ve been reading Freneau, unable to believe how bad he is, unable to credit what was taken for poetry once upon a time on the frontier. They must have been so hungry for it they adopted anything that had a rhyme. A few pages away, the rushing Niagara of Whitman silences all.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
September 1, 2007
My garden gave me a white rose for my birthday.
Some night creature takes a bite or two out of a tomato, and then leaves it in a conspicuous place, on a porch step or the flat of a stump. What is the message? “I’ve been here, sucked all the sweetness, don’t bother”?
Milkweed sends reviews of Birdsongs of the Mesozoic, which has evidently been slow in finding its critical audience. The reviews are good, flattering. Are there bad reviews they keep from me? Probably a good idea.
The sickness this time was wearying but not annihilating. I may even get to the studio. I may pull a weed or two.
The gas man came yesterday (he was afraid of the cats) and showed me where the gas line would have to plow right through my garden. I went ahead with it, but I swallowed hard.
My garden gave me a white rose for my birthday.
Some night creature takes a bite or two out of a tomato, and then leaves it in a conspicuous place, on a porch step or the flat of a stump. What is the message? “I’ve been here, sucked all the sweetness, don’t bother”?
Milkweed sends reviews of Birdsongs of the Mesozoic, which has evidently been slow in finding its critical audience. The reviews are good, flattering. Are there bad reviews they keep from me? Probably a good idea.
The sickness this time was wearying but not annihilating. I may even get to the studio. I may pull a weed or two.
The gas man came yesterday (he was afraid of the cats) and showed me where the gas line would have to plow right through my garden. I went ahead with it, but I swallowed hard.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
August 31, 2007
At lunch JF said, by way of explaining why there’s no formal relationship between NC Stage and me as a playwright, “Development in not part of our program.” The answer I spoke was, “Well, that’s a valid reason.” The answer I thought was, “I’m not talking about development. What I give you won’t need development. If I hand a play to a producer, it is ready for the stage.” I don’t understand why I don’t get more credit for forbearance than I do. People think I say just anything that comes into my head, because sometimes what I say is sharp or hard, or impatient to get to the point. But it is never thoughtless. It’s never untrue, though of course it may be wrong.
I’ve stopped sending scripts to development workshops, for the outcome will be either negligible or, “experts” being anxious to avoid the onus of having nothing to say, damaging. People who haven’t given real thought to the development process, who hope a play can’t work without its buying what they sell, will think that I’m deluded or arrogant. I’m neither of those things. I’m in a hurry. I know what path is the path and what is a morass.
Ganymede Arts (formerly Actors Theater of Washington) didn’t mention development when they asked to do The Loves of Mr. Lincoln in October. It was a hasty choice, because their schedule was full when they read the piece, but they love it, want to get it on the stage, and, if I read things right, to do a full production next year after introducing it as part of a Gay Arts Festival this October. I’m a little perplexed at being the darling of Gay Festivals– I have never thought of my art as particularly “gay,” and in Mr Lincoln there is not even a hint of a hint of sexual peccadillo– but I suppose that’s better than not being the darling of anything. In any case, they clearly think it’s more scandalous than I do. I think my treatment of Lincoln is respectful to an extreme, even a fulsome, degree. I wanted to put a real hero heroically onstage.
Rosemary and Ed came into town, and we had supper at Reza’s (where I haven’t been since the Rickie days) and talked about their house hunting. Maybe it was the food, but I was sick afterward in choir practice, so sick that I had to sneak into the church bathroom, closing all the sound-stopping doors behind me, and vomit copiously. During the vomiting I was stricken with agonizing stomach cramps. The only treatment I know for the muscle seizures is drinking water, and so I tried to drink water while my stomach was still engaged in sending material the other direction. There were no cups in the bathroom, so I had to bend over and try to drink out of the spigot, which position only intensified the stomach cramps. I found myself ladling water to my mouth in the cup of my hand, sweating and weeping from the pain of the muscle seizures, not knowing if I were finished vomiting or not. Contrary to what I thought then, I did recover. But the crowning touch of this calamitous (partially calamitous, anyway) week came upon me only two hours ago, phlebitis, at this point a mild case, like a bad flu with a few additional aches, but we’ve yet to see if it’s going or coming on slowly.
Tea with Jason in the morning. He gave me a book, and joy. A girl got out of a car, ran to me, kissed me, and said, “I love you.” When she came out again with her coffee she said “You’re my hero.” I looked at Jason and said, “I wish to God I knew who she was.”
At lunch JF said, by way of explaining why there’s no formal relationship between NC Stage and me as a playwright, “Development in not part of our program.” The answer I spoke was, “Well, that’s a valid reason.” The answer I thought was, “I’m not talking about development. What I give you won’t need development. If I hand a play to a producer, it is ready for the stage.” I don’t understand why I don’t get more credit for forbearance than I do. People think I say just anything that comes into my head, because sometimes what I say is sharp or hard, or impatient to get to the point. But it is never thoughtless. It’s never untrue, though of course it may be wrong.
I’ve stopped sending scripts to development workshops, for the outcome will be either negligible or, “experts” being anxious to avoid the onus of having nothing to say, damaging. People who haven’t given real thought to the development process, who hope a play can’t work without its buying what they sell, will think that I’m deluded or arrogant. I’m neither of those things. I’m in a hurry. I know what path is the path and what is a morass.
Ganymede Arts (formerly Actors Theater of Washington) didn’t mention development when they asked to do The Loves of Mr. Lincoln in October. It was a hasty choice, because their schedule was full when they read the piece, but they love it, want to get it on the stage, and, if I read things right, to do a full production next year after introducing it as part of a Gay Arts Festival this October. I’m a little perplexed at being the darling of Gay Festivals– I have never thought of my art as particularly “gay,” and in Mr Lincoln there is not even a hint of a hint of sexual peccadillo– but I suppose that’s better than not being the darling of anything. In any case, they clearly think it’s more scandalous than I do. I think my treatment of Lincoln is respectful to an extreme, even a fulsome, degree. I wanted to put a real hero heroically onstage.
Rosemary and Ed came into town, and we had supper at Reza’s (where I haven’t been since the Rickie days) and talked about their house hunting. Maybe it was the food, but I was sick afterward in choir practice, so sick that I had to sneak into the church bathroom, closing all the sound-stopping doors behind me, and vomit copiously. During the vomiting I was stricken with agonizing stomach cramps. The only treatment I know for the muscle seizures is drinking water, and so I tried to drink water while my stomach was still engaged in sending material the other direction. There were no cups in the bathroom, so I had to bend over and try to drink out of the spigot, which position only intensified the stomach cramps. I found myself ladling water to my mouth in the cup of my hand, sweating and weeping from the pain of the muscle seizures, not knowing if I were finished vomiting or not. Contrary to what I thought then, I did recover. But the crowning touch of this calamitous (partially calamitous, anyway) week came upon me only two hours ago, phlebitis, at this point a mild case, like a bad flu with a few additional aches, but we’ve yet to see if it’s going or coming on slowly.
Tea with Jason in the morning. He gave me a book, and joy. A girl got out of a car, ran to me, kissed me, and said, “I love you.” When she came out again with her coffee she said “You’re my hero.” I looked at Jason and said, “I wish to God I knew who she was.”
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