March 5, 2017

The odd truth is that I have found my ideal man, perfect in looks and demeanor, Irish, beautiful and strange, and there is not a spark between us. He plays for the other team, but in the paradise of dreams that made no difference. I can picture some mean angel standing at the Gates hearing my last complaint, saying, “We provided. It’s not our fault nothing came of it.

March 4, 2017

The night freeze took the blossoms of the magnolia. What were pink chalices are now tatters of pale brown parchment. Peach and nectarine seem to have sailed through.

Amazingly accomplished day: Sat in the High Five and wrote a sad poem for Lent. Then off to the studio, where I had maybe the best day of recent memory, finishing, beginning, continuing, achieving my first serious entry into the world of watercolors. Came home and launched into the garden, assembling and  filling one of the raised beds which are meant to conquer the gravelly ground eastward. Through all this I was less tired and sore than on days of far less activity, suggesting a way around the perception of the long decline. All in all, an encouraging portent for retirement, if I can find that much to do that doesn’t involve the purgatory of submission.

Evening a little sadder, but there was sherry.

March 3, 2017

Vivid dreams. In the first, some time early in the night, I was a TA at some big university, worried that I would never find a job in Academia. I woke and realized that I was almost ready to retire from a job I did get. At first I couldn’t believe it; then the relief was palpable.

The second was also academic. I worked at a university department whose offices had huge, generous windows. In the midst of our cubicles was a sort of courtyard, walled by glass, about twelve feet by twelve feet. You could see to the other side, and the courtyard seemed empty, paved with white gravel. But someone had discovered that whatever went into that cubicle disappeared, no one knew to where. Thereby commenced a series of crimes whereby one or another of the department maneuvered people they hated in the courtyard– which looked pleasant enough from the outside-- to be rid of them forever. A little dog was the first and accidental victim. A secretary also blundered into it by mistake. I’d been reading a history of New York, so as she disappeared I heard somebody cry out, “O! Cornbury!” I was vouchsafed a vision of some who had disappeared, and they were huddled on the shore of a cold sea, mist and dimness and rolling fog all around them. They did have, however, vivid sweaters.

Pachelbel from Pandora. Spent yesterday sending out manuscripts, which accounts for my having considered it in my heart a waste. Gathered myself to go to the Magnetic Theater, where I had the pleasant surprise of a really solid work called Terry Tempest: the Last Interview. C dominated the stage to exactly the right degree. Current actors need to be reminded about matters of projection, though, a situation which was not aided by a woman in the front row who thought she was showing support by braying at the top of her lungs at anything that might resemble a joke. Except that from the rear I couldn’t tell exactly who she was, I wanted to go down and say, “The play can make it on its own. Please shut up.” But, all in all, I expected less than I got.  The moon over the river district was a thick white Cheshire cat smile.

Met A at the play. He had phoned me yesterday, but ran afoul of my neglectful phone habits. His news was astonishing and, to me, devastating– surely to him as well, but his features were composed as he spoke. He’s left New York, unable to live there between the sadly infrequent gigs. It is well for him to be here, very well indeed for local theater, but I felt sad for the New York theater, which takes so little care for its own future. I think I embarrassed him with my tsunami of fatherly protectiveness, which he, in the bosom of his family, probably doesn’t need.

March 2, 2017

Up oddly early, even for me. I was drunk when I went to bed, so it may have been quite early. I was drunk from going out after an Ash Wednesday service, which is not a good sign for the solemnity of Lent. Rejoiced because I got through the service before my voice failed. Was loud, but the room was loud, so all was well.  For Saint David’s Day I posted a request (jocular, I thought) for people to honor me. Most took it lightly, but from S comes the sentence– “someone I have respected since the third grade.” I sat back and thought,”really?” S was the big kid, handsome and athletic, and part of my scorn for him was desire for him, if I had but understood those things back then. I always thought we were enemies, though there was nothing in particular on his part–that I remember now– to indicate this: it was all in my little brain.  One time when I was taking a short cut through the Metropolitan Park to get home, he ran all the way from Betty Jane to stop me and command me to go back and take the authorized path. Even judging that he was going to kick the shit out of me there in the great meadow where there were no witnesses, I said “No.” He looked away, as though something interested him on the far side of the field, and then simply turned and ran off. “Huh,” I say, even at this hour. We spoke maybe twice until the Ellet reunions, where we chatted as if we had actually known each other. We had, of course, observing at distance, across the room, from separate lives since, as he noted, the third grade. I contemplate the power he has over me even now with a simple phrase. Maybe if we had known how to talk to each other–

A student begged and received permission to read Ginsberg’s “Please, Master,” aloud. May be the first time I’ve actually been embarrassed in class.

March 1, 2017

Lent. St. David’s Day. Long before light at the Racquet Club, where I stayed long enough after my circuit to joke with god-like Brent. Resolved to take as my Lenten discipline to curb my anger, especially my most secret anger. But I said to the Lord as I was driving home from the gym, “Only one of us is working on this relationship.”

Shrove Tuesday pancakes at All Souls last night. I had not had a pancake in thirty years. Made me think of my dad. Made me think of camping. Happy crowd in the parish hall.

Trump gives a big speech to which I could not listen, but about which I know from morning news commentary that he is being given credit for not whipping his dick out half way through, for not actually saying “nigger” or “wetback.” Set the mark low enough and people will praise you for not causing a disaster.

Tizzy over the wrong envelope at the Oscars. Really? That’s what we’ve got to worry about? Ten thousand people texting as they drive this morning put the world in greater peril.

February 28, 2017

I’m so brutally famished for what I want that I let huge blessings pass without notice. Maybe I’ll concentrate on that for Lent. Think of my students, the strivers and dreamers, who hang on words I don’t even remember saying. Think of the pink magnolia in the garden, finally repaying my effort. Think of Maud who waits for me to settle so she can sleep on my feet. Stop cursing God in battles at the edge of night. Think of having gotten my taxes ready to take to the accountants. I spent $1447.  on fees to send my work out to contests and publications. That was not known in days of old.  Received my first check from The Great Comet– surprising, gratifying. One thing worked out fine.

February 26, 2017

Coffee with A. We sat in the warmish blazing Sunday light and talked theater, theater, theater. He may be my most dedicated disciple, though he is so little like me “disciple” stretches the matter a bit. Our talk allowed me to throw In the Assassins’ Garden over the top. Another masterpiece to sit in the computer. People ask “would you rather be truly good and underrated by the public, or mediocre and overrated by the public?” I am not even ashamed anymore to answer, “the second.”