December 8, 2013

Squalls of tremendous dark rain. I would have thought it too cold to rain.

Working hard on a revision of Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers. How much time needs to pass before it is fully evident what needs to come out?

The purchase of the new house tosses over and over in my mind. Adventure is on one side, repose on the other. I think, though, it is full steam ahead, so much so that I’m impatient with “due diligence” and the leisurely course of monies from one account into another.

Lessons and Carols last evening. I felt strangely disengaged, perhaps because my stomach was perilously upset. I know what causes it, and yet I do it anyway. There must be a word for that. Anyway, I sang distractedly, and made mistakes I’d not made before. Rushed home, got relief, thought I’d spend the rest of the evening writing. Instead, obeyed the call to Avenue M, where the gang was gathered. Drank delicious cider. In bed monstrous early, up now monstrous early, which is the way I like it.

Finally read the essay– it’s a courtesy to call it that– against Apothecary in the latest Metabolism. Before I’d read it I’d advised Frank to leave it be, as it was likely so trifling nobody would pay it heed. I was right. It allowed undergraduate white boys to strut their liberal credentials, and nothing much else. The entire magazine was pretty awful, badly designed, the pieces badly chosen, the poetry unreadable, the editorial attitude manifestly snotty. I know the editors enough to know they’re still in their “anything goes and all things are equal” phase, but it’s a shame to waste resources like that. Will anybody pick up the next Metabolism? As an educator I want to get my hands on those boys and make sure they understand that groupspeak– the uncritical mouthing of the truisms of your clan– is just as bad in your mouth as in your enemy’s. Your thoughtless piety is not necessarily any better than Michele Bachman’s or Ted Cruz’s The essay was a compendium of unconsidered dogma picked up in a social science class and never digested, never, as it should, have been, spat out. I would point out that the “science” part of “social science” or “political science” is but a bitter courtesy. They got everything wrong, counting on the piously nodding heads of their compatriots to conceal that fact until it all got into print. Finally, if they worked themselves into a lather over Apothecary’s being a white inroad into a black neighborhood, it’s well that their research was too shoddy to uncover that the Lyric Opera has it headquarters in the same building, surely the whitest organization in the city. That would have made them apoplectic– if the end had been arguing for racial justice. The honest end was to take down visionary and energetic young men who did something worthwhile as they sat around doing nothing. Can’t let that go without a visit to the woodshed.

December 7, 2013

Scurry to get financing together for the house at 51. There seems to be little doubt that I can get a mortgage–“at about any size you want,” said the man at the mortgage service. As soon as a check arrives at Toyota and money arrives in my account from the sale of equities and I obliterate my present mortgage, I’m debt-free. If I read the account right, my down-payment could be more than half the cost of the new house. But the man’s check-list of proofs I must offer is long and, in some places, esoteric, and maybe Karen will find something horribly wrong in the midst of due-diligence. Sleepless part of the night worrying about this an and that, mostly about THIS house. I’m not going to sell it soon– do I have a large domicile crossing a street, office in one place, living in another? Do I fix it up for tenants? Being a landlord is a pain in the ass, even when the tenant is–as is my case– sane and undemanding. The further one might not be. The problem is, of course, my gardens. Can I leave them? I never thought a problem like this would arise in my life.

Met Stuart, the present owner, in Fresh Market last night, never having seen him before round about so far as I can remember. His realtor had told him the story of the murder.

Maud’s cry from the hall sounded melancholy. I say, “We have no melancholy here.”

Matthew Locke on Pandora.

December 6, 2013

Went to bed weirdly and, at moments, violently ill last night. I assumed I was in for a long bout of it, but I rise this dark morning well. Can exhaustion really manifest that violently? Was it something I ate? Yesterday was hugely eventful, and maybe my body was asking me to shut down for a while.

Before the Humanities exam one of my problem students came to me– a big boy who slept through most of the discussion sections, but who attended faithfully– fighting back tears. He failed every exam and had not done his first paper, but I’d told him that if he got all his work end by the end of the semester, I would pass him with a D, hoping he had gotten SOMETHING out of it through faithful attendance. He came without the ancient paper, without the journal-- which was the big class project-- and without a single cultural event, on the day of the exam, to plead some sort of case, though what exactly was hard to tell. He started to blame me, saying that he hadn’t understood the assignments and the syllabus “wasn’t clear.” A sharp look from me made him add, “but I could have asked for help, and I never did.” He went through every twist and turn of apologetic self-loathing, as if I were going to take his failure personally. Finally he said, “You gave me every chance to pass this class, and I didn’t. I’m sorry.” This dwells in my mind because there are certain kinds of helplessness I don’t understand. The remedy for this was so easy, the consequences so hard. What can be going through people’s minds? You screw up; I give you a clear path to follow to amend the screw-up; you do nothing. I can understand this if you don’t really care, but then you come to the office in tears, as though you hadn’t seen it coming. I have taught for 33 years, and I have never gotten this. God must say this sort of thing a billion times a day.

The handsome carpet men came from Istanbul, and I have 3 new (old ) carpets, one of which was a gift, and new embroidered pillow cases, which were also a gift. Spent far too much money, but have no buyer’s regret, so I won’t worry about it. Ann came to the party and bought a runner for her house. She was very knowledgeable.


December 5, 2013

Prune the roses back to a little above the ground. Check on Lawrence the Fish and the tadpoles in their little unnatural ponds, thinking I'm ready for winter.

December 4, 2013

Folie d’Espana on Pandora

Went to see the house across the street, the murder house. The realtor didn’t know it was the murder house and was not particularly happy to hear it. That just makes it more interesting to me. I thought it must be red-necky inside, but nothing could be further from the truth. It is rustic/elegant, with light pouring in from all sides.. I’m sad that I didn’t know the current owner better than I did- which is to say, not at all, for he is a manly and cultivated man. It suits me the best of any house I have seen yet, though the land is not better–a little worse–than what I have now. Something in the prospect of, maybe, owning that house lit a fire under me. I sold Diageo and paid of my house. I am now the sole owner of this property, bank go to hell. The actual check has not been written, for one must wait for the money to drift from one place to another. Makes you wonder why something that was not thought of for five years became suddenly, upon a winter’s afternoon, necessary. I have searched my heart for regrets, and I have none. I can buy this house outright and put a down payment on a new one (should that finally happen) and still have more money than I got from my father five years ago. I am even reconciled to the loss of the new house, already have plans for bringing this one up to standards without too much turmoil. It’s odd how you can think and think on an issue and arrive nowhere until a particular moment, as if that moment had been chosen long ago and nothing was going to move it.

December 3, 2013

Put up the Christmas tree yesterday, a thing remarkable because doing the same task one year ago was weighed down with gloom and despair, an empty chore done only that I might not regret not having done it.  This year it was–just putting up the Christmas tree, tiring, but almost joyful. Flood of memories. I remember every ornament that went on our tree when I was ten years old. I remember at what point we would have hot chocolate. I remember my father’s drill of what went on before what. The light reflector were a very big thing with him. He must have seen a tree burn up once. They did give the tree the look of a child’s drawing of a constellation.

Bought T’s book on Kindle. I can’t imagine. . . .

“Giving Tuesday,” predictably, about a million organizations have their virtual hands out, wanting to be given to.

December 2, 2013

Eventful day. I began marketing The One with the Beautiful Necklaces in the same old hit-or-miss way. No rejections in, now, 20 hours.  Knocked myself out on the rowing machine at the Y. Coffee with Tom, who (defending his long crush on Andi McDowell) didn’t believe I was never star-struck, and kept naming names until he proved his point by lighting on Colin Farrell. Then a tour of White Bridge Farm with DJ and Karen. It was gorgeous, but a horrible truth entered my mind. I may have let this dream go a little too long. I can no longer do everything I once did. Can I keep up with a farm, or even a very large property? People my age are downsizing rather than trading up. I had to baby my knees climbing the stairs to the bedrooms (I blamed the rowing machine, but--) and I was glad when the sloping path to the road was over. The goats screamed disturbingly at us, and the goose was a ball of indignation. I’d like to have animals. . . I’d like to have a lot of things. . .  The days of infinite possibilities are over.

We bought Christmas trees, and set them up with unusually tedious effort. Mine is up, and pretty, and I am ready for the onslaught of merriment.

December 1, 2013

Coffee with Adam K as he swept from Waynesville to Greensboro. The world opens for him like a flower. Sometimes you like at a life and say, “This is working right,” and no amount of gratitude is excessive.

Ran into E and his two sons at the Christmas store in Biltmore. Knew there was a reason why I went in there.

Day warm as spring. I sat on a bench at church in my winter coat, soaking it in like an old bear.