October 7, 2009
My first real Hamlet rehearsal last night. It was a bit shocking. We are far from the finish line, but we have far to go. Hamlet is going to be–is-- very good, but can he carry the whole show? Will he have the stamina to fight the inertia round him? A as Hamlet is a real actor truly trying in all the right ways to shoulder his way into one of the most difficult roles on the English stage. To watch him is to watch discovery, exploration, daring, community with the other actors. In the brief time we are on stage together I feel electricity. I am grateful he is the only person that I, being the Ghost, ever relate to. He is a living presence in what is otherwise a waxworks of community theater stylization. Horatio is inexperienced, but possesses the right spirit and the right look and was better with each line delivered. Ineptitude is easy to cure. Set-in-concrete misapprehension is not. This was only Act I, and not all of that. Experience tells me Ophelia and Laertes and the Player King are likely to be on the mark, though I didn’t see them in action. As for the rest– Claudius is an automaton, spitting out his not-comprehended lines like a musical comedy actor delivering a pattersong. Unbelievably, he offers notes on the performances of others. Gertrude vanishes before that gale.
Friday, October 9, 2009
October 6, 2009
A few days of sleeping 15 hours a day, and the keel seems to be evening out.
Rain stops Steve the Plumber yesterday. As for today, he says, “I forgot I promised that I would be a poll worker at the primary Tuesday.” This is over the phone, so I cannot throttle him. But he is sending his brother. . . to do what I don’t know. Something with a ditch witch. The next time I see him I will stand with my face in his and I will say, “THIS MUST BE OVER.” Except that he is 6 foot something and I’d never reach his face. I don’t know enough about plumbing to judge whether he’s incompetent. I do know that he has varied and process-prolonging interests. I do know that, right now, I hate him with a hatred he has only minimally earned.
Every effort at saving effort– taking on assistants, hiring a website designer– results in expanded effort. Is this a rule they neglected in school? Things must be explained, the slightest gesture graded and approved. No effort is saved at all, and one acquires another master.
One of my Humanities students is picking a quarrel with me. This is curious to me, as I was so spontaneously well disposed toward him. Shoulders sometimes come equipped with chips, and there’s nothing to be done.
My students informed me that next week is fall break. If I don’t have a ticket to Ireland, I don’t pay attention. Still, what a relief. Have to hold on for a few more days.
A few days of sleeping 15 hours a day, and the keel seems to be evening out.
Rain stops Steve the Plumber yesterday. As for today, he says, “I forgot I promised that I would be a poll worker at the primary Tuesday.” This is over the phone, so I cannot throttle him. But he is sending his brother. . . to do what I don’t know. Something with a ditch witch. The next time I see him I will stand with my face in his and I will say, “THIS MUST BE OVER.” Except that he is 6 foot something and I’d never reach his face. I don’t know enough about plumbing to judge whether he’s incompetent. I do know that he has varied and process-prolonging interests. I do know that, right now, I hate him with a hatred he has only minimally earned.
Every effort at saving effort– taking on assistants, hiring a website designer– results in expanded effort. Is this a rule they neglected in school? Things must be explained, the slightest gesture graded and approved. No effort is saved at all, and one acquires another master.
One of my Humanities students is picking a quarrel with me. This is curious to me, as I was so spontaneously well disposed toward him. Shoulders sometimes come equipped with chips, and there’s nothing to be done.
My students informed me that next week is fall break. If I don’t have a ticket to Ireland, I don’t pay attention. Still, what a relief. Have to hold on for a few more days.
October 4, 2009
Swine flu. At least I suppose it is. NPR says the flu this season is swine, and so I participate in a great cultural experience. It’s not that bad, not any worse than any other flu, unless there are surprises down the road. It was a relief, actually: first to discover that it wasn’t phlebitis, and then to explain the crushing gloom of the last few days, which I hoped wasn’t fully assignable to plumbing. The cats lay on me as I slept, radiating cat chi and wild healing.
Swine flu. At least I suppose it is. NPR says the flu this season is swine, and so I participate in a great cultural experience. It’s not that bad, not any worse than any other flu, unless there are surprises down the road. It was a relief, actually: first to discover that it wasn’t phlebitis, and then to explain the crushing gloom of the last few days, which I hoped wasn’t fully assignable to plumbing. The cats lay on me as I slept, radiating cat chi and wild healing.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
October 3, 2009
Full moon. Every detail of the ruined garden stands in stark blue detail. By day the butterfly bush and the butterfly weed are, as advertised, aflutter with butterflies. The monarchs are moving south.
Bad day. Worst. If it had been somebody else’s day, I would have said it was comically bad, but I actually didn’t find it very funny. Steve the Plumber fixed the visible leaks, but the meter kept spinning. His theory is that the whole pipe between my house and DJ’s is gone, crushed, Swiss cheese. Sometime when he gets to it he will dig up the back yard, and the shade garden, and replace the pipe, and we will hope that the plumbing god is finally satisfied. The bill begins to rival the downpayment on the whole damn property. Jolene observed that my last month’s water bill was larger than the whole Phil Mechanic Building’s for a year, and with the bio diesel boys using thousands of gallons. I do not know where all the water could be going. The entire Carolina aquifer must be restored by now.
Tried to format Piss and Four for the Gospel Makers for Francine’s book. The whole formatting thing is a source of fury to me, and is the reason why I let Urthona Press slide away. But there I was, in the midst of it, having to try again and again, eventually realizing that part of the required formatting simply could not be done. One command prevented the other. Too exhausted for rage. So final is my hatred of this that if Francine hadn’t finally said, “I’ll do it,” I would have withdrawn the plays.
A bit of flu, too. Not much to it, except for the digestive system. Haven’t eaten–permanently-- in two days. Thought I would not eat until the plumbing is fixed. If God can prove a point, so can I.
Full moon. Every detail of the ruined garden stands in stark blue detail. By day the butterfly bush and the butterfly weed are, as advertised, aflutter with butterflies. The monarchs are moving south.
Bad day. Worst. If it had been somebody else’s day, I would have said it was comically bad, but I actually didn’t find it very funny. Steve the Plumber fixed the visible leaks, but the meter kept spinning. His theory is that the whole pipe between my house and DJ’s is gone, crushed, Swiss cheese. Sometime when he gets to it he will dig up the back yard, and the shade garden, and replace the pipe, and we will hope that the plumbing god is finally satisfied. The bill begins to rival the downpayment on the whole damn property. Jolene observed that my last month’s water bill was larger than the whole Phil Mechanic Building’s for a year, and with the bio diesel boys using thousands of gallons. I do not know where all the water could be going. The entire Carolina aquifer must be restored by now.
Tried to format Piss and Four for the Gospel Makers for Francine’s book. The whole formatting thing is a source of fury to me, and is the reason why I let Urthona Press slide away. But there I was, in the midst of it, having to try again and again, eventually realizing that part of the required formatting simply could not be done. One command prevented the other. Too exhausted for rage. So final is my hatred of this that if Francine hadn’t finally said, “I’ll do it,” I would have withdrawn the plays.
A bit of flu, too. Not much to it, except for the digestive system. Haven’t eaten–permanently-- in two days. Thought I would not eat until the plumbing is fixed. If God can prove a point, so can I.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
October 2, 2009
After three days of upheaval, Steve the Plumber whacks a pipe with his shovel and opens a new gash probably as big as the old one. The other interpretation is that after all that in the front yard, he finally found where the leak was. In any case, I’m exactly where I was a week ago. And $3000 poorer. And no real end in sight. At least the shut-off valve is in the basement, where I can climb down and turn it off and on a necessity dictates. He couldn’t finish it tonight because he has plans with friends. He wasn’t going to come in tomorrow because he was going hiking, but he graciously postponed the outset of that. On top of it, a grueling departmental “retreat.” Seven hours of mostly–though, in fairness, not completely-- superfluous yak. The administration is to be thanked that most of our labor has nothing whatever to do with our actual jobs. The good thing about that was that it kept me away from home and observation of the various plumbing fiascos. At lunch I told BH that I was on the verge of a crying jag. He did me the honor of thinking I was joking.
Jason’s opening at the Pump.
After three days of upheaval, Steve the Plumber whacks a pipe with his shovel and opens a new gash probably as big as the old one. The other interpretation is that after all that in the front yard, he finally found where the leak was. In any case, I’m exactly where I was a week ago. And $3000 poorer. And no real end in sight. At least the shut-off valve is in the basement, where I can climb down and turn it off and on a necessity dictates. He couldn’t finish it tonight because he has plans with friends. He wasn’t going to come in tomorrow because he was going hiking, but he graciously postponed the outset of that. On top of it, a grueling departmental “retreat.” Seven hours of mostly–though, in fairness, not completely-- superfluous yak. The administration is to be thanked that most of our labor has nothing whatever to do with our actual jobs. The good thing about that was that it kept me away from home and observation of the various plumbing fiascos. At lunch I told BH that I was on the verge of a crying jag. He did me the honor of thinking I was joking.
Jason’s opening at the Pump.
Friday, October 2, 2009
October 1, 2009
While Steve and his cohorts were installing my new water system, the pipe leading from the city system to my meter burst into a geyser, famous locally as the moon rides toward midnight. The city replaced the meter and the linkage and all. My water is on but DJ’s is not. They assume there’s gunk in the line branching to his house. They ripped my hose attachment out of the wall. It is never over. I tended a little to my wounded transplants as the moon rose. Cannot write. Can barely stay awake.
Read in The New Yorker about the Dreyfus affair. The author said that the anti-Semitic, anti-libertarian forces in France, instead of learning their lesson by defeat, became intractable and monomaniacal, reduced to mindless nay-saying and hysterical opposition. This is exactly what has happened to the Republican party, which no longer seeks to have a part in government, but to disrupt government whenever it can, out of sheer envy. Everything the Republican party has said about President Obama’s plans and actions has been a hysterical lie. You’d think they’d throw something rational in once in a while just to keep people interested.
While Steve and his cohorts were installing my new water system, the pipe leading from the city system to my meter burst into a geyser, famous locally as the moon rides toward midnight. The city replaced the meter and the linkage and all. My water is on but DJ’s is not. They assume there’s gunk in the line branching to his house. They ripped my hose attachment out of the wall. It is never over. I tended a little to my wounded transplants as the moon rose. Cannot write. Can barely stay awake.
Read in The New Yorker about the Dreyfus affair. The author said that the anti-Semitic, anti-libertarian forces in France, instead of learning their lesson by defeat, became intractable and monomaniacal, reduced to mindless nay-saying and hysterical opposition. This is exactly what has happened to the Republican party, which no longer seeks to have a part in government, but to disrupt government whenever it can, out of sheer envy. Everything the Republican party has said about President Obama’s plans and actions has been a hysterical lie. You’d think they’d throw something rational in once in a while just to keep people interested.
September 30, 2009
So, Steve the Plumber fails to find the leak, suggests that the only thing to be done is drive a new pipe from the meter to the house. This will correct, he says, the bizarre meanderings which mark the present set-up, and amend the fallible antiquity of the hardware. I agree. The new route, though it misses Jocasta now, drives through the north garden, and I have spent the morning frantically transplanting. Before that I had run two miles and done a double weights set, so if I am alive at then end of the day, amazement will abound. I try not to think of the garden. I dig up what I can. I reconcile myself to losses. I threaten the workmen with death if they damage the tree peonies, which seem, anyway, to be aside of the route. The city utility guys arrive to tell them where not to dig. Stocks plunge. But Ty, the sweet Warren Wilson guitar playing country boy they have digging for them, works with his shirt off. One tries to prize the compensations offered.
Evening. I come home to a long trench gashed through the garden, from the street to, and through, the porch. Though it will be filled with pipe and covered with dirt, I almost wish they would leave the trench, so I could watch it erode, the walls soften, the floor rise, to see how long it would take to disappear, to see if something would grow in it that was buried long ago and grows no more in my garden.
Crawford Murphy brings over the proofs the The Beautiful Johanna poster.
I watch a DVD set in Sligo. Terrible homesickness.
So, Steve the Plumber fails to find the leak, suggests that the only thing to be done is drive a new pipe from the meter to the house. This will correct, he says, the bizarre meanderings which mark the present set-up, and amend the fallible antiquity of the hardware. I agree. The new route, though it misses Jocasta now, drives through the north garden, and I have spent the morning frantically transplanting. Before that I had run two miles and done a double weights set, so if I am alive at then end of the day, amazement will abound. I try not to think of the garden. I dig up what I can. I reconcile myself to losses. I threaten the workmen with death if they damage the tree peonies, which seem, anyway, to be aside of the route. The city utility guys arrive to tell them where not to dig. Stocks plunge. But Ty, the sweet Warren Wilson guitar playing country boy they have digging for them, works with his shirt off. One tries to prize the compensations offered.
Evening. I come home to a long trench gashed through the garden, from the street to, and through, the porch. Though it will be filled with pipe and covered with dirt, I almost wish they would leave the trench, so I could watch it erode, the walls soften, the floor rise, to see how long it would take to disappear, to see if something would grow in it that was buried long ago and grows no more in my garden.
Crawford Murphy brings over the proofs the The Beautiful Johanna poster.
I watch a DVD set in Sligo. Terrible homesickness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)