April 10, 2019

First reading last night of FW in the Laurel Forum. It was a success. Everyone says they hear the poetry in the book, a remark which I interpret as “pure poetry is too rich for us; spread out like this, we can endure it. We can love it.”

Had my meeting with the Dean and the Provost. It was. . . unexpected. I had come prepared to fight the good fight for truth, honesty, and academic freedom, but their actual problem with me so was petty. . .  so unexpectedly petty. . . even to fight such a thing with the armaments I’d massed was. . . petty. So I ended up saying “Oh, yes ma’am I will be more careful in the future,” walking out at once relieved and minimally disgusted. The fight was over that? The Provost said, “You’ve had a sensational career; It would be a shame to have something like this linger at this point.” I wanted to say “the shame would be on you,” but, as I’ve observed, there was really no point.  Even the Provost is afraid of Miss Jill. There is no redress. I turn my back on Phillipps Hall and say “Good riddance.” It’s not even sad.

Excellent afternoon in the garden, planting zinnias and half-priced refugees from Reems Creek.

April 6, 2019

Full spring. Rose early and went to work out, but it was too early, and the Y stood dark. Wrote industriously last night and this morning on the Hiram novel, which I had not expected to do. I found where I’d left off before, and why I had to stop, and discovered how I could move on. Taking a rest from writing, I went to the garden, where the day was a full triumph. The lawn is just now perfect with violets and forget-me-nots. Planted canna and rhubarb and a tremendous quantity of gladiolus I must have gotten for a special price. Jose is mowing. Glad I saw the violets before he started. 

Have an appointment on Tuesday to see the Dean and the Provost about my transgressions as a serial harrasser. By any objective measure I am blameless and most cruelly put-upon, but I have learned not to expect the matriarchy to take the straight way. I fear in the end it won’t matter what actually happened. Even to assert the facts will be looked upon as not quite getting the point. But also, I don’t care very much. Mostly, I resent having to think about it.

On the same day (unless I’ve been fired) , Evan and I do our reading in the Laurel Forum.  It is the first the world will hear from The Falls of the Wyona.

April 5, 2019

Tennyson, then the making of a monumental stew. Went to the Magnetic, lured by an invitation and a free ticket. The play was surprisingly good, professionally composed and well acted. The topic–an old murder and trial–was not gripping enough for a full evening, or advanced technique, but it almost was. I was content with that.

April 4, 2019

Hoarse to speechlessness. My digestive system has been so odd lately–since long before I went to Israel–that I bought probiotics. The first pill–one pill–took away the odd feeling down there, but it will take a while to build back my biota after rounds of antibiotics. Did not sing at Blue Spiral as I was meant to do, but crouched at home with a cat on my lap.

April 3, 2019

My habit of not reading emails all the way through backfired when I realized I’d been sent the proofs of Night, Sleep, and the Dreams of Lovers for correction. There were not many errors, but some were big, such as the omission of halves of sentences and margin changes in the middle of the page. I wish Night Sleep were coming out first, for my progression as a writer from it to Wyona is clear. Night Sleep is a solid, muscular book; Wyona is magic. Will it deaden or increase the impact of each to come out nearly at the same time?

April 2, 2019

Vivaldi Concerto for viola ‘d’amore

On Facebook:
 
Ethan Fugate
April 1 at 8:17 PM

Hey - it is the first day of National Poetry Month, so of course I read a novel on my flight from PDX to Charleston. Granted, it is a novel that flashes its poetic bones on almost every page. & I kinda think The Falls of Wyona is a real triumph, David Hopes. Sorry I missed you in Portland. #redhenpress

Queer night. I dreamed I was in the Army, in Iraq, and was being taken to see an unspeakable atrocity, the mutilation in some way of a human body so it was monstrous and unrecognizable. When I was shown it I didn’t understand it, and didn’t completely understand the explanation provided by my superior officer. Odd, I think, not to understand one’s own dream even within the dream. The next dream took place in a series of vast warehouses (containing cafes and residences, etc) spread over a series of beautiful hills. I plotted a murder, and got someone to do the murder for me. I figured the space was so vast no one would suspect me, but toward the end of the dream I began to fear discovery. Even when I woke it took a moment to understand the jeopardy was gone. Even in the dream I didn’t know why I wanted this person dead.

April 1, 2019

Examined my students on the Romantics. We spent an entire period on “Mont Blanc,” and of the papers I glanced at, not one of them identified the excerpt correctly. Planted a second red buckeye and a second persimmon.  Received my tax return. Refunds will just about cover the cost of doing the forms.

Gave Elliott a copy of Peniel. He brings it in with the first few poems underlined, notated, analyzed like a manuscript in the Trinity library. I smile even now.