September 6, 2015

Church. Nap. Cantaria. Cantaria almost unbelievably irritating, the silverbacks nattering like a bunch of second graders. Every comment required a comment. Half the choristers sat texting behind their music. Driving home, seeing some of our missing brethren at the ice cream shop. Sigh. Loyal to nothing but the smart phone. But some good angel sees us through into the arms of night.

September 5, 2015

London aflame in 1666. Olympics terrorized in Munich, and I arrived in Baltimore.

Half moon, fat Venus golden in the south. Rose long before the light–it still is not light– and tried to go to the studio, but a stopped train blocked all the ways into the River District. Was unable to eat yesterday, and the energy of the fast buzzes through my nerves. Pacing like a racehorse until something opens.

Z gave me flowers for my birthday.

Cleaned off the tiled east porch, so it is part of the house now rather than storage.

Finally set the Riverside office in order. If people are going to be there, it might as well look its best. Many pictures hung that I have not seen in two years.

Planted white acanthus, waiting for the rolling thunder to bring them rain.

September 4, 2015

 Dvorak on Pandora.  Grayish-yellowish sky. Days of great emotional volatility.
   
I get to rehearsal early to open the door, giving me time to read old notebooks and journals. It is all so lyrical, so Romantic. There’s a clear streak of religious fervor that splashes sometimes over into fanaticism. Mostly there is creating, creating, creating works that never see the light. It is most extraordinarily futile and sad. You’d think I’d be able–or be allowed-- to get on to another phase. Picked up the diary where, at the very end, Brad looks at me in Fort Lauderdale and says, “I know you love me and all, but, really, you kind of disgust me.” The words linger in the air like carved stone thirty seven years later.
   
Two girls–sisters I suppose–on their way to school got into a fight. I couldn’t see what they were doing to one another, but I heard one scream “That really hurts!” and then saw her, crying, turn away from the bus stop and head for home. What I witnessed was mischief and cruelty, if on a tiny scale. How do we learn that? Even on a tiny scale?

September 3, 2015

Bright day, dim day, a little of each.
   
One student claims not to know the class meets on Thursday, asks me to give her a tutorial on work missed.
   
One student asks for access to my notes. I say, “You may have noticed that I don’t use notes.”
She says, “I have a special disability where I lose track of what’s happening in class. It would really help if I could see everything written down.”   
I do not say, “Back in my day that was called ‘not paying attention.’” Here it is a disability. You can go to the disability office and work out ways to accommodate this. I’ll bet the ways do not include paying attention.

Weir rehearsal at my office last night. I was not behind, and feared that I might be.

September 2, 2015

Slogged through Egypt. Made my way to the evening, and then the big party at Avenue M. I’m sorry I had to give the party to myself, but this is the kind of life where nobody throws you a party. You face the truth and go on. In the event, it was very festive. People previously unknown to one another met and talked, and it looked like a scene from a movie. Alma gave me hotplates made from the tiles that came off the mural when they demolished Hyre Junior High. I wanted some and didn’t know how to get them, so I was happy. Feel odd this morning, as though I had drunk very hard, though in fact I didn’t.  The Internet greetings have soared past 400– I am curiously attentive to and greedy for such things. Warm regards from people I do not recognize. Birthday greetings– through the magic of Facebook– from the Perolios– who attended my 6th birthday party back on Goodview Avenue.
   
The walk home from the restaurant, carrying my bag of cards and little presents, was curious. I resigned something, let it go, let it slip away, though I am not sure this morning exactly what it was.

September 1, 2015

Began the first day of my 65th year by going to the Y and having a good weight session. Maybe that didn’t actually begin it. Maybe the dream of memorizing the play began it, except the play I was memorizing in the dream was not the one I should be memorizing in the world. I was making progress, too.
  
Playwrights met here last night, with C as visiting celebrity. He was thoughtful and eloquent and insightful, and I think a perfect class would be he and I approaching the matter from our identical perspectives but very different practices. He said that my ability to tell a story awes him. To me that’s the easiest thing.  I think less about my aesthetic philosophy than any artist I know– and then only when called upon or provoked. Whether that’s good or bad I don’t know.
  
We spent some time regarding the cats, and one of the students said, “Which do you love better?” Before I thought about it I’d said, “the one that loves me less.”

Age means thinking constantly about the things you did wrong, the moments you were awkward or hurtful.  Even moments of triumph reverberate back as mortification, for surely you were as bad a winner as you are a loser. There must have been times when you were gracious or grand, but you can’t think of them. You can’t think of them without being the dog in the corner, lifting a leg, mocking everything.
  
Left last night’s leftovers out for the crows, whom I hear rejoicing in the front yard.
  
Vivid image of a fox crossing the night road with his eyes shining, but whether it was a dream or a sight I cannot tell.

August 31, 2015

Rode herd on the Humanities lecture: Egypt. The fly in the ointment– well, it’s not exactly ointment– is a too-bright little boy who thinks his having a dialog with me is an appropriate class procedure. I began the Egyptian creation story of Nun and Shu and Tefnut, and he raised his hand and said, “I never heard an Egyptian creation story that didn’t begin with Ra.”  I said, “Well, now you have.” Too harsh? He is sweet in a way, and reminds me a little of myself, except that I usually kept my mouth shut and noted the prof’s errors with silent scorn.
   
Planted a box of random iris bulbs that arrived.

Worked out after a week of gout disability. As I write the sentence I realize that the pain at long last had disappeared.
   
Calling of crows.