February 12, 2010
Vivid dreams. I’m holed up in a big hotel room in Russia, making difficult phone calls to discover the origin of my recurring phlebitis– it seems someone began long ago to pour a kind of worm into a fountain at Akron University, and that’s where it all started. In the dream I rack my brain to discover how knowledge of the source equals knowledge of the cure. The helpful Russians are all the time giving me phone numbers that I don’t know how to use.
Gray dawn, after a succession of gray dawns.
There is an actual time conflict, thank God, with the chorus fundraiser, but I wouldn’t be there anyway. The fact is that I don’t want to be represented to the public by drag queens. A straight man doing drag as a vaudeville act is funny. A gay man doing drag is vicious. A gay man doing drag defuses the straight word’s anxieties about men loving men by saying, “don’t worry, we’re really just girls after all.” It makes us clowns and eunuchs, snowy-white step-‘n-fetch-its that the straight world would never take seriously. You were right all along; we’re not really men. It’s as homophobic as a Kansas preacher with a gays-to-hell billboard.
I have friends who’ll say, “Oh! But drag is fun.” Maybe it is. So’s dressing up in leather or Marine uniforms or cowboy hats. Do that instead. Let them be a little afraid.
Light snow, coming down fast.
Ginger sent me a picture of her son Sean– 10 years old–in her Christmas card. A smiling kid in a red t-shirt, against a green wall. He has his mother’s eyes. I keep the photo by my keyboard as a kind of anchor. I don’t know what’s being anchored to what, but there it is.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
February 9, 2010
Rage over this and that. Rage over the time-gobbling, reductive, redundant process of “assessment” at the university. Fulminate for hours against it in my heart, but the worst it is is a sort of infantile retelling of an old story in words a new and business-obsessed administration can understand. The goals are, essentially, my goals, if set by a process antithetical to the Academy. All the important parts are left out, but the important parts cannot be measured in the way our reductivist colleagues wish to measure, but, I am assured, assumed, so let all that be at peace.
I think, finally, in the ensuing episode of my life I have to leave indignation behind. Like some actors and Shakespeare, I am prone to it, but not very good at it. I do not always know where judgment ends and self-interest begins. I do not always know when someone is evil and when he is simply blundering. I do not always know battles I am meant to fight from those upon which I am meant to turn my back. I wonder if I’ve ever accomplished anything by striding to war in the full armor of indignation except the shortening of my own life. Leave that behind. Practice that smile which can be taken either for serenity or idiocy.
Wordsmyth wants a headshot. I have never had one. Time to obsess about that.
Take up the gavel of Chairman of the Warren Wilson Friends of the Library tomorro afternoon. It is absurd on a number of levels--
Rage over this and that. Rage over the time-gobbling, reductive, redundant process of “assessment” at the university. Fulminate for hours against it in my heart, but the worst it is is a sort of infantile retelling of an old story in words a new and business-obsessed administration can understand. The goals are, essentially, my goals, if set by a process antithetical to the Academy. All the important parts are left out, but the important parts cannot be measured in the way our reductivist colleagues wish to measure, but, I am assured, assumed, so let all that be at peace.
I think, finally, in the ensuing episode of my life I have to leave indignation behind. Like some actors and Shakespeare, I am prone to it, but not very good at it. I do not always know where judgment ends and self-interest begins. I do not always know when someone is evil and when he is simply blundering. I do not always know battles I am meant to fight from those upon which I am meant to turn my back. I wonder if I’ve ever accomplished anything by striding to war in the full armor of indignation except the shortening of my own life. Leave that behind. Practice that smile which can be taken either for serenity or idiocy.
Wordsmyth wants a headshot. I have never had one. Time to obsess about that.
Take up the gavel of Chairman of the Warren Wilson Friends of the Library tomorro afternoon. It is absurd on a number of levels--
February 8, 2010
Wandering the valleys of wrath. This happens from time to time, and I don’t know whether to blame indignant discernment or hormones.
I listed my grievances about Cantaria to SC. When he summarized them for the Board, I sounded like a bitchy malcontent. Maybe it comes down to that, and the reticence I prize in myself is not, actually, nearly enough.
Wandering the valleys of wrath. This happens from time to time, and I don’t know whether to blame indignant discernment or hormones.
I listed my grievances about Cantaria to SC. When he summarized them for the Board, I sounded like a bitchy malcontent. Maybe it comes down to that, and the reticence I prize in myself is not, actually, nearly enough.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
February 7, 2010
Tired of unending winter. Sleet and rain alternated yesterday. This morning is too dark to see whether it is sleet or rain blocking the sky. But I resolved my circuit breaker problems and worked at the studio all Saturday, painting through most of it, but also reading through the balance of the scripts that had been sent to Black Swan. There are so many playwrights, so many plays, and few of them what you would call bad. There are reasons for not producing most of them, but clear and obvious reasons for having written them. I hope some angel keeps track of all the honest effort that goes unrewarded in the world. Jolene was also persuaded to change the location of the router, so the building is now flooded with WiFi capability. Hurrah all around.
Cantaria board meeting this afternoon, where it may (or may not) leak out that I am no longer singing with the group, at least for this semester. We are crossing too many lines at once– from concert choir into show choir, from fun into camp–and I’m not going along. I’ve fought the battle before, but now I feel that my heart is no longer the group’s heart. I don’t mind being outnumbered. I do mind being stubborn and out of step. If I’m not those things, the tide will turn.
Tired of unending winter. Sleet and rain alternated yesterday. This morning is too dark to see whether it is sleet or rain blocking the sky. But I resolved my circuit breaker problems and worked at the studio all Saturday, painting through most of it, but also reading through the balance of the scripts that had been sent to Black Swan. There are so many playwrights, so many plays, and few of them what you would call bad. There are reasons for not producing most of them, but clear and obvious reasons for having written them. I hope some angel keeps track of all the honest effort that goes unrewarded in the world. Jolene was also persuaded to change the location of the router, so the building is now flooded with WiFi capability. Hurrah all around.
Cantaria board meeting this afternoon, where it may (or may not) leak out that I am no longer singing with the group, at least for this semester. We are crossing too many lines at once– from concert choir into show choir, from fun into camp–and I’m not going along. I’ve fought the battle before, but now I feel that my heart is no longer the group’s heart. I don’t mind being outnumbered. I do mind being stubborn and out of step. If I’m not those things, the tide will turn.
February 5, 2010
Stormzilla fizzled a little here at its southern rim. We had an hour of freezing sleet blasted away by gale-like winds, and then hours of miserable, penetrating rain. The electricity flickered just enough to crash computers, so here I am on a battery-driven laptop to ease around the frustration.
Joy in The Beautiful Johanna and associated linguistic exuberance have led me to begin a new play, which I’m calling Voices.
Went briefly to the studio, but it was too cold, and I had thrown too many breakers to get enough light.
Crawford’s hyacinths fill the rooms with fragrance.
Stormzilla fizzled a little here at its southern rim. We had an hour of freezing sleet blasted away by gale-like winds, and then hours of miserable, penetrating rain. The electricity flickered just enough to crash computers, so here I am on a battery-driven laptop to ease around the frustration.
Joy in The Beautiful Johanna and associated linguistic exuberance have led me to begin a new play, which I’m calling Voices.
Went briefly to the studio, but it was too cold, and I had thrown too many breakers to get enough light.
Crawford’s hyacinths fill the rooms with fragrance.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
February 3, 2010
Unsurprisingly, I took a dive into phlebitis on Monday morning, responding, I suppose, to the stress of the play. Caught it in time, and spent only one afternoon class and one night on the rim of unconsciousness. The chills cause muscle spasms the next day, but it has been a thousand time worse, so I go about rejoicing at dodging a bullet.
Cast and crew at the playwriting class Monday night, brilliant and expressive. Continue my joy in being associated with them. I don’t quite miss it (remind me never to produce again), but I’m overjoyed that it happened. All was well. The negative comments come from people who would scorn a cure for cancer if I’d discovered it. I do provoke people. My defense is that I seldom mean to.
We have a day between a storm and a storm. I intend to make the most of it.
Afternoon. Satisfying hours at the studio. I kept throwing breaker switches trying to run the lights and the space heaters at once, so finally I gave up, but I was happy with what I had accomplished. Painted over “finished” paintings to start again, as if I were Jason.
Unsurprisingly, I took a dive into phlebitis on Monday morning, responding, I suppose, to the stress of the play. Caught it in time, and spent only one afternoon class and one night on the rim of unconsciousness. The chills cause muscle spasms the next day, but it has been a thousand time worse, so I go about rejoicing at dodging a bullet.
Cast and crew at the playwriting class Monday night, brilliant and expressive. Continue my joy in being associated with them. I don’t quite miss it (remind me never to produce again), but I’m overjoyed that it happened. All was well. The negative comments come from people who would scorn a cure for cancer if I’d discovered it. I do provoke people. My defense is that I seldom mean to.
We have a day between a storm and a storm. I intend to make the most of it.
Afternoon. Satisfying hours at the studio. I kept throwing breaker switches trying to run the lights and the space heaters at once, so finally I gave up, but I was happy with what I had accomplished. Painted over “finished” paintings to start again, as if I were Jason.
February 1, 2010
The weather allowed us a Sunday matinee, which had a lively audience and perhaps the best performances yet. The weight of anxiety was off me, and I enjoyed the play for the first time thoroughly, breaking into tears in Reiner’s soliloquy and not stopping before the end. Strike went liked greased lightning. After strike we shambled down the street and met at Jack of the Wood for drinks and darts. My cast and crew was happy. I was happy. Major success with or without the weather, though now it will be harder to blame people who didn’t show, because they can say, “Well, I TRIED to come Saturday night . . . “
Sound on the street last night–almost constantly– of tires spinning on ice. I watched a white pick-up try to escape from the parking lot across the street. The passenger got out and pushed. It finally, after a last running start from the very edge of the pavement, made it out onto the street.
The weather allowed us a Sunday matinee, which had a lively audience and perhaps the best performances yet. The weight of anxiety was off me, and I enjoyed the play for the first time thoroughly, breaking into tears in Reiner’s soliloquy and not stopping before the end. Strike went liked greased lightning. After strike we shambled down the street and met at Jack of the Wood for drinks and darts. My cast and crew was happy. I was happy. Major success with or without the weather, though now it will be harder to blame people who didn’t show, because they can say, “Well, I TRIED to come Saturday night . . . “
Sound on the street last night–almost constantly– of tires spinning on ice. I watched a white pick-up try to escape from the parking lot across the street. The passenger got out and pushed. It finally, after a last running start from the very edge of the pavement, made it out onto the street.
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