February 26, 2008
House fragrant with the candle I burned all night. Hat, except for gaps in the lines, seems to be in better shape than the other components of Crown of Shadows have been at the same point. I spent yesterday in a daze of exhaustion and distant ache which I thought was turning into the flu that everybody has, but did not. Massage from David Gary. I asked him why he hadn’t been to see Crown of Shadows, and he said, "I can’t stand to see two boys kissing." I told him that part was over, and now it’s just girls and boys kissing, but I felt strange under his hands.
Conference call from Sunnyspot confirms that Edward is on for 10 performances in the middle of May. I’m relieved that all is on track. One anticipates disaster, or at least disappointment, right up to the last moment. They ask if I’m satisfied with the cast, and only after I’ve said "yes" do I perceive that they really wanted to know, and might have responded had I expressed concern. Some of my Asheville cast was better than my remembrance of the New York cast. Perhaps they wanted to hear that, perhaps not.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
February 24, 2008
Gray Sunday morning at the café, I having decided church is not for me today.
Crown of Shadows surpasses my every expectation. I don’t suppose it’s going to be a great moneymaker, but it surpasses my very modest expectations even on that account. I have learned a number of things from it. The lesson which stands out most boldly at the moment is of those things I am not interested in doing anymore, and probably wasn’t very interested in at any time. If it had been purely up to me, the festival would never have happened. I came up with the idea, but without my partner Mickey and her taste for–or at least ability at–organization and plain hard ground level work, it would still be an idea. I fought my own reluctance at almost every point. They may have been my words, but her will delivered them to the community. I don’t like making schedules or finding props or coddling talent or even using the phone that much. I betray my supposed Virgo nature at every point, being–sometimes–impatient with details and blind to, or at least forgiving of, flaws. I feel the words are my duty, and other duties make me a little impatient. I can do and have done nearly everything associated with theater production, but there are certain things I hope never to be called on to do again. I can write and I can act. I can direct so long as nobody asks me where I want the lights. The days of doing it all myself are over; I just don’t want to anymore. Thank God people stepped up. Thank God I can count on people stepping up again, for I feel this experience has been good for everyone. It has one week to go, and I hate no one, and assume no one hates me, and I think that is a kind of triumph.
DJ won the raffle last night, and chose my painting French Broad at Asheville. I hope he liked it rather than thinking he didn’t dare choose something else.
Gilgamesh is better than it was at the Wortham. MM was at the show last night. It must be strange watching a new vision of a show you directed–which you were the first to direct–but he seemed to like it, and probably appreciated, as I did, that intimacy improves even an epic. These actors are better than the last batch, and the light and sound is at least as good-- infinitely better considering that Ann flushed $6,000 down that drain the first time around. The venue is problematic, but that makes less difference than one expected it would. When we arrived last night we had to disassemble a hip-hop concert before we could set up for ourselves. I did myself proud by singing as I worked, and not aiming one snappish word at those who had double-sold time we had already paid for. Like most things one wants to get agitated about, the mess and the late start ended up making no difference at all.
Actors are continually fascinating to me. Watching mine, I come to a clearer understanding of what I do that either pleases or infuriates directors, of when innovations or immediate discoveries are inspired and when they are merely weird. Everyone is doing fine, no embarrassments, nothing to apologize for. Several of our number are boundlessly talented. I seldom brag about never having taken an acting class, lest somebody say, "Maybe you should," but I always learn a great deal from those I watch on stage. A is very young and so prodigiously talented that the limits of his potential cannot, at this point, be imagined. He also has a gentle wit and personal sweetness that will fend off much of the garbage slung one’s way in the theater. I cannot imagine anyone being his enemy, or grudging him any success in the future, and this is good luck almost as great at his talent. I tell him I love him every night, and I hope he understands how literal I am. C is on some levels the best actor on stage, the best student actor I have ever known, but the best of his acting occurs in rehearsal. For performance he hardens and intensifies, and though intensity is good, too much, or intensity badly directed, is less so. He shouts all through Gilgamesh. I have said nothing beyond a few hints because he is a young actor trying something by his own imagination, and the fact is that Gilgamesh as Blow Hard is an interpretation that actually works. I sit in the dark theater and watch him veering toward the border of Too Much, but never quite hitting it, always staying within the bounds of the interpretation he has carved out for himself. It works less well with the script than the more nuanced character I thought we were developing in rehearsal, but it is a plausible interpretation, and he has the talent almost to bring it off. Plus, I’m essentially a teacher, and if he’s learning by this–I’m sure he is–then I feel he must see it through. How many times has a director let me have my head even when I made his flesh crawl? Thank God I don’t know. But the source of his interpretation bothers me more than its qualities. It seems entirely external. I’m not a method actor. I do not believe I have to have had an experience to portray it on stage, but I believe I must be imagining it honestly and completely at the moment of portrayal. C seems to be doing none of those things. When questioned about a choice he’s made, his answers cluster around the notion that a man like Gilgamesh or Gaveston should be doing such-and-such at this point in the action, a fully external and arbitrary process which harkens back to an older day of bombastic and insincere acting. I fear he is being badly trained by the theater department, which has poured all its energy into a method which teaches you, essentially, how to fake a tantrum when you need one, and not much else. The lucky part of it is that C is such a superb and dedicated student that the energy with which he is absorbing bad advice will, I am sure, be matched and over-matched by the energy with which he will absorb the good, when he learns to discern between them. Professional courtesy makes it difficult even to warn him against the baleful influence. I must rely on the gods of theater, assuming they will do what they can to lead such a bright talent down the right path. T is a completely natural and intelligent actress, always better than you think she could possibly be, always making the best of whatever awkward direction you may have given her. I dwell on her less because I think there is nothing she needs from me, other than opportunity. Her problem will be that her beauty is unconventional, and those who cast according to appearance will foolishly overlook her. We almost missed casting her as Siduri–which she does brilliantly– because she was not the sexpot we thought we wanted. We were wrong. Others, such as D, show that an actor may have fulfillment even when acting is necessarily an avocation. I don’t doubt he could be a professional actor, with his imposing (though also limiting) physical presence, and his elegant, no-wasted-energy method, but he seems to be happy here, getting better parts and more of them than anybody could in New York, having a real job and therefore a shot at a real life. The same could be said of S. The same could be said of me.
Do I love the theater? I think I kept myself from loving it as much as I could, to avoid the disappointment and hurt of betrayal by the beloved. But the more it works for me, the better I love it, and of all the things I’ve done, I think I’ve loved Crown of Shadows the best. Since it isn’t a person, I think I can say uprightly that I’ve loved it because it has been a success. I’ve never thought of myself as a "theater professional" any more than I have a "state employee" or a "Southern writer," but all those things have come upon me, and I add them, with pleasure as well as bemusement, to the tapestry. Oddly, now that I think of it, I’ve never thought of myself as a teacher, or a poet, or any of the things which should be so essential to my character, but only as little D wandering through the world, trying his hand at this and then that, hoping that they are the right things, or will lead to rightness before the end.
Afternoon: The Sunday matinee of Gilgamesh was delayed half an hour while our technician did not appear, did not answer his cell phone. I am amazed by my own tranquility in the face of such things. Word is he overslept– until 3 in the afternoon. I had to leave before all excuses were made, all explanations rendered, but it should be an interesting beginning of the week next week. I think we convinced B to adapt his ambitions for the set so that we might actually rehearse Hat. He begged at one point for two nights so he could work on the set without actors being in the way all the time. I’ll do him the courtesy of assuming he didn’t hear what he himself was saying.
Gray Sunday morning at the café, I having decided church is not for me today.
Crown of Shadows surpasses my every expectation. I don’t suppose it’s going to be a great moneymaker, but it surpasses my very modest expectations even on that account. I have learned a number of things from it. The lesson which stands out most boldly at the moment is of those things I am not interested in doing anymore, and probably wasn’t very interested in at any time. If it had been purely up to me, the festival would never have happened. I came up with the idea, but without my partner Mickey and her taste for–or at least ability at–organization and plain hard ground level work, it would still be an idea. I fought my own reluctance at almost every point. They may have been my words, but her will delivered them to the community. I don’t like making schedules or finding props or coddling talent or even using the phone that much. I betray my supposed Virgo nature at every point, being–sometimes–impatient with details and blind to, or at least forgiving of, flaws. I feel the words are my duty, and other duties make me a little impatient. I can do and have done nearly everything associated with theater production, but there are certain things I hope never to be called on to do again. I can write and I can act. I can direct so long as nobody asks me where I want the lights. The days of doing it all myself are over; I just don’t want to anymore. Thank God people stepped up. Thank God I can count on people stepping up again, for I feel this experience has been good for everyone. It has one week to go, and I hate no one, and assume no one hates me, and I think that is a kind of triumph.
DJ won the raffle last night, and chose my painting French Broad at Asheville. I hope he liked it rather than thinking he didn’t dare choose something else.
Gilgamesh is better than it was at the Wortham. MM was at the show last night. It must be strange watching a new vision of a show you directed–which you were the first to direct–but he seemed to like it, and probably appreciated, as I did, that intimacy improves even an epic. These actors are better than the last batch, and the light and sound is at least as good-- infinitely better considering that Ann flushed $6,000 down that drain the first time around. The venue is problematic, but that makes less difference than one expected it would. When we arrived last night we had to disassemble a hip-hop concert before we could set up for ourselves. I did myself proud by singing as I worked, and not aiming one snappish word at those who had double-sold time we had already paid for. Like most things one wants to get agitated about, the mess and the late start ended up making no difference at all.
Actors are continually fascinating to me. Watching mine, I come to a clearer understanding of what I do that either pleases or infuriates directors, of when innovations or immediate discoveries are inspired and when they are merely weird. Everyone is doing fine, no embarrassments, nothing to apologize for. Several of our number are boundlessly talented. I seldom brag about never having taken an acting class, lest somebody say, "Maybe you should," but I always learn a great deal from those I watch on stage. A is very young and so prodigiously talented that the limits of his potential cannot, at this point, be imagined. He also has a gentle wit and personal sweetness that will fend off much of the garbage slung one’s way in the theater. I cannot imagine anyone being his enemy, or grudging him any success in the future, and this is good luck almost as great at his talent. I tell him I love him every night, and I hope he understands how literal I am. C is on some levels the best actor on stage, the best student actor I have ever known, but the best of his acting occurs in rehearsal. For performance he hardens and intensifies, and though intensity is good, too much, or intensity badly directed, is less so. He shouts all through Gilgamesh. I have said nothing beyond a few hints because he is a young actor trying something by his own imagination, and the fact is that Gilgamesh as Blow Hard is an interpretation that actually works. I sit in the dark theater and watch him veering toward the border of Too Much, but never quite hitting it, always staying within the bounds of the interpretation he has carved out for himself. It works less well with the script than the more nuanced character I thought we were developing in rehearsal, but it is a plausible interpretation, and he has the talent almost to bring it off. Plus, I’m essentially a teacher, and if he’s learning by this–I’m sure he is–then I feel he must see it through. How many times has a director let me have my head even when I made his flesh crawl? Thank God I don’t know. But the source of his interpretation bothers me more than its qualities. It seems entirely external. I’m not a method actor. I do not believe I have to have had an experience to portray it on stage, but I believe I must be imagining it honestly and completely at the moment of portrayal. C seems to be doing none of those things. When questioned about a choice he’s made, his answers cluster around the notion that a man like Gilgamesh or Gaveston should be doing such-and-such at this point in the action, a fully external and arbitrary process which harkens back to an older day of bombastic and insincere acting. I fear he is being badly trained by the theater department, which has poured all its energy into a method which teaches you, essentially, how to fake a tantrum when you need one, and not much else. The lucky part of it is that C is such a superb and dedicated student that the energy with which he is absorbing bad advice will, I am sure, be matched and over-matched by the energy with which he will absorb the good, when he learns to discern between them. Professional courtesy makes it difficult even to warn him against the baleful influence. I must rely on the gods of theater, assuming they will do what they can to lead such a bright talent down the right path. T is a completely natural and intelligent actress, always better than you think she could possibly be, always making the best of whatever awkward direction you may have given her. I dwell on her less because I think there is nothing she needs from me, other than opportunity. Her problem will be that her beauty is unconventional, and those who cast according to appearance will foolishly overlook her. We almost missed casting her as Siduri–which she does brilliantly– because she was not the sexpot we thought we wanted. We were wrong. Others, such as D, show that an actor may have fulfillment even when acting is necessarily an avocation. I don’t doubt he could be a professional actor, with his imposing (though also limiting) physical presence, and his elegant, no-wasted-energy method, but he seems to be happy here, getting better parts and more of them than anybody could in New York, having a real job and therefore a shot at a real life. The same could be said of S. The same could be said of me.
Do I love the theater? I think I kept myself from loving it as much as I could, to avoid the disappointment and hurt of betrayal by the beloved. But the more it works for me, the better I love it, and of all the things I’ve done, I think I’ve loved Crown of Shadows the best. Since it isn’t a person, I think I can say uprightly that I’ve loved it because it has been a success. I’ve never thought of myself as a "theater professional" any more than I have a "state employee" or a "Southern writer," but all those things have come upon me, and I add them, with pleasure as well as bemusement, to the tapestry. Oddly, now that I think of it, I’ve never thought of myself as a teacher, or a poet, or any of the things which should be so essential to my character, but only as little D wandering through the world, trying his hand at this and then that, hoping that they are the right things, or will lead to rightness before the end.
Afternoon: The Sunday matinee of Gilgamesh was delayed half an hour while our technician did not appear, did not answer his cell phone. I am amazed by my own tranquility in the face of such things. Word is he overslept– until 3 in the afternoon. I had to leave before all excuses were made, all explanations rendered, but it should be an interesting beginning of the week next week. I think we convinced B to adapt his ambitions for the set so that we might actually rehearse Hat. He begged at one point for two nights so he could work on the set without actors being in the way all the time. I’ll do him the courtesy of assuming he didn’t hear what he himself was saying.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Gilgamesh Opening Night
February 23, 2008
I’m going to stop having opinions about plays and how they’re going to play and how they’ll fly on opening night, for again, last night, Gilgamesh was triumphant against my misgivings. It’s not that I don’t trust the gods of the theater; it’s just that I’m astonished when they bestow their blessings on me. I sat in my back pew mesmerized, as though I’d never seen it before, as though I were a ten year old at a fairy tale. Gilgamesh is a fairy tale, and the power of that medium reached through it without any assistance, or even consciousness, on my part. The house was not full, but it was responsive and it was they who first telegraphed to me that we had another success.
At the raffle, and Ed Cawley won my painting, Twilight in the Emerald City.
The Usual afterwards, where we mingled with the cast of Moonlight and Magnolias. Ron Bashford’s unexpected kindliness beamed to all corners of the table. I am too private to be totally comfortable in a situation like that, twenty people at a bunch of tables pushed together, the loudest mob in the house, but I was loud enough myself, and I was happy walking home afterward, drunk under the cloudy moon, my ears ringing with voices in the cool, wet dark.
I’m going to stop having opinions about plays and how they’re going to play and how they’ll fly on opening night, for again, last night, Gilgamesh was triumphant against my misgivings. It’s not that I don’t trust the gods of the theater; it’s just that I’m astonished when they bestow their blessings on me. I sat in my back pew mesmerized, as though I’d never seen it before, as though I were a ten year old at a fairy tale. Gilgamesh is a fairy tale, and the power of that medium reached through it without any assistance, or even consciousness, on my part. The house was not full, but it was responsive and it was they who first telegraphed to me that we had another success.
At the raffle, and Ed Cawley won my painting, Twilight in the Emerald City.
The Usual afterwards, where we mingled with the cast of Moonlight and Magnolias. Ron Bashford’s unexpected kindliness beamed to all corners of the table. I am too private to be totally comfortable in a situation like that, twenty people at a bunch of tables pushed together, the loudest mob in the house, but I was loud enough myself, and I was happy walking home afterward, drunk under the cloudy moon, my ears ringing with voices in the cool, wet dark.
February 22, 2008
Woke after 7 this morning, the first time I have slept so late in years. I must have been exhausted after dress rehearsal for Gilgamesh last night, a dress rehearsal which had no light nor sound cues, and for which some, but by no means all, the costumes were ready. B hammered at the set while actors tried to shout over the din. Our luck with Edward on opening night was little short of miraculous. I don’t think it will hold tonight. But we’ll see.
Woke after 7 this morning, the first time I have slept so late in years. I must have been exhausted after dress rehearsal for Gilgamesh last night, a dress rehearsal which had no light nor sound cues, and for which some, but by no means all, the costumes were ready. B hammered at the set while actors tried to shout over the din. Our luck with Edward on opening night was little short of miraculous. I don’t think it will hold tonight. But we’ll see.
Friday, February 22, 2008
February 21, 2008
I don’t know that I would want to repeat yesterday every day, but it was a fine day, and at the ending of it I was happy. I worked out at the Y. I went to the studio and painted well. But the evening was the best. We had a tech rehearsal of Gilgamesh, and though it didn’t go particularly well, it didn’t go particularly badly, either, and one anticipated so much worse. There was a mood in the room, a sweetness, a comradery which made all memorable. Cody was rambunctious, but one assumes he was feeling his triumph after Edward, and one concedes an evening or two of rambunctiousness. All the boys were running around shirtless. Everyone played like children in the smoke from the smoke machine. Outside, the moon was entering eclipse, and we kept sidling between hall and porch to rehearse a little, and then watch the moon turn dried blood red, stirring and strange and beautiful, amid the four stars which gleamed with it in and out of the flying clouds.
The pulmonaria is about to bloom.
An online publication called Livejournal, published a review of Edward the King. It loved the play and hated the production.
I don’t know that I would want to repeat yesterday every day, but it was a fine day, and at the ending of it I was happy. I worked out at the Y. I went to the studio and painted well. But the evening was the best. We had a tech rehearsal of Gilgamesh, and though it didn’t go particularly well, it didn’t go particularly badly, either, and one anticipated so much worse. There was a mood in the room, a sweetness, a comradery which made all memorable. Cody was rambunctious, but one assumes he was feeling his triumph after Edward, and one concedes an evening or two of rambunctiousness. All the boys were running around shirtless. Everyone played like children in the smoke from the smoke machine. Outside, the moon was entering eclipse, and we kept sidling between hall and porch to rehearse a little, and then watch the moon turn dried blood red, stirring and strange and beautiful, amid the four stars which gleamed with it in and out of the flying clouds.
The pulmonaria is about to bloom.
An online publication called Livejournal, published a review of Edward the King. It loved the play and hated the production.
February 19, 2008
Full moon risen above the east. I saw it rise over the parking lot of Zaxby’s in Swanannoa, where I had never been before, where I will never be again. I was driving toward Concord, NC, to do a lecture at the library, but I realized I couldn’t. I turned around and drove home. I was dragging sadness behind me like a blanket, and soon the whole world would be tangled in it. I didn’t realize what the sadness was about. I was missing my cast; I knew that was part of it. But then I remembered a phone message from Linda this morning, where she outlined the places where dad’s cancer had spread. I think I was thinking of that. He and I both are the sort who would be able to believe that all this cancer talk is foolishness, that it’s just a smear on the film. But I suppose it’s not. I thought of the ancient photo of him now in my kitchen, the one he professed no further interest in. A tiny boy in a white shirt and a silly hat. I prayed that it might be easy for him. I observed how his life had been so hard, sometimes cruelly and pointlessly so, sometimes because of me, and how it would be nice now if the ending of it went easy. I was crying so hard I had to pull over, while the moon rose over the parking lot in Swanannoa, where I never was before, where i will never be again.
Stopped at Walgreen’s, and Riley was exiting hiding his face and pretending not to see me, in shame at missing class today. I have to pretend to care. I have to pretend that seeing him wasn’t the joy it was at that moment, my face wrenched and ugly from weeping. It’s all so stupid. We’re so ill-equipped in the face of everything.
I googled my father. There was nothing. That was sad, too, though I don’t know what I was expecting.
I googled Maple Glen, where he was happy as a boy. It’s a tiny neighborhood near Centerville, north of the River, a tiny road dropping down from Centerville Road and dead-ending in the Monongahela. I vowed to go there, maybe with his ashes, when it comes to that.
Full moon risen above the east. I saw it rise over the parking lot of Zaxby’s in Swanannoa, where I had never been before, where I will never be again. I was driving toward Concord, NC, to do a lecture at the library, but I realized I couldn’t. I turned around and drove home. I was dragging sadness behind me like a blanket, and soon the whole world would be tangled in it. I didn’t realize what the sadness was about. I was missing my cast; I knew that was part of it. But then I remembered a phone message from Linda this morning, where she outlined the places where dad’s cancer had spread. I think I was thinking of that. He and I both are the sort who would be able to believe that all this cancer talk is foolishness, that it’s just a smear on the film. But I suppose it’s not. I thought of the ancient photo of him now in my kitchen, the one he professed no further interest in. A tiny boy in a white shirt and a silly hat. I prayed that it might be easy for him. I observed how his life had been so hard, sometimes cruelly and pointlessly so, sometimes because of me, and how it would be nice now if the ending of it went easy. I was crying so hard I had to pull over, while the moon rose over the parking lot in Swanannoa, where I never was before, where i will never be again.
Stopped at Walgreen’s, and Riley was exiting hiding his face and pretending not to see me, in shame at missing class today. I have to pretend to care. I have to pretend that seeing him wasn’t the joy it was at that moment, my face wrenched and ugly from weeping. It’s all so stupid. We’re so ill-equipped in the face of everything.
I googled my father. There was nothing. That was sad, too, though I don’t know what I was expecting.
I googled Maple Glen, where he was happy as a boy. It’s a tiny neighborhood near Centerville, north of the River, a tiny road dropping down from Centerville Road and dead-ending in the Monongahela. I vowed to go there, maybe with his ashes, when it comes to that.
Monday, February 18, 2008
February 18, 2008
It is one hour into Monday morning, delivered here by eating and drinking too much before bed. I will write till the wakefulness goes away. The cats look at me wondering how the schedule could be so far amiss.
Edward the King closed its Asheville run this afternoon. I’d say it is the most successful showing of my work in this town, and is so to a degree which creates a whole new classification. I’ve started over. The playwright I was before is gone, and I am new. Steve Lloyd of HART could not stop saying that the script was "perfect. . . flawless. . . ." More people could have come, but all who came are, I think, convinced that we are doing a worthwhile thing. F appeared, cold but polite, and almost woundingly beautiful. As I sat at the back for the first few minutes, wondering if he were laughing, if he were enjoying it, not attending to the fact that everyone else clearly was, it dawned on me that, though he is envious, infantile, and not overwhelmingly bright, I hoped, and continue to hope, for his approbation because he is so beautiful. Now, there’s a window into your own soul! Do I really prefer the approval of the beautiful over the approval of the wise? I think not, generally, but sometimes, and clearly in this case. Seeing that complexity plain eased it, and I could laugh at myself, and lap up the joy gushing forth from every seat but his.
. . . a beautiful woman whose name I forget on Jfrap’s arm. . . bewildered folk music afficionados wondering what to make of a set and chairs in their dancing place. . . . Stephanie running the house with granite efficiency. . . people I did not know taking tickets and manning the door and helping all to be well. I had to leave early for Cantaria rehearsal, missing the last act and the last accolade, and the feeling of that was bereavement, like the last day of summer camp when you’ve made so many friends you will never see again. Except I will see them, for a while, anyway. The after-production emotions were all grand and irrational, and I enjoyed every minute of them. I miss Edward. I look forward to New York, and seeing him again. When I’m there I’ll miss the cast I’ve grown to love. I’ll stop myself from saying, "that’s not the way we did it in Asheville."
Everyone worked so hard. Everything came out so well. Let me remember this blessing for at least a day or two.
It is one hour into Monday morning, delivered here by eating and drinking too much before bed. I will write till the wakefulness goes away. The cats look at me wondering how the schedule could be so far amiss.
Edward the King closed its Asheville run this afternoon. I’d say it is the most successful showing of my work in this town, and is so to a degree which creates a whole new classification. I’ve started over. The playwright I was before is gone, and I am new. Steve Lloyd of HART could not stop saying that the script was "perfect. . . flawless. . . ." More people could have come, but all who came are, I think, convinced that we are doing a worthwhile thing. F appeared, cold but polite, and almost woundingly beautiful. As I sat at the back for the first few minutes, wondering if he were laughing, if he were enjoying it, not attending to the fact that everyone else clearly was, it dawned on me that, though he is envious, infantile, and not overwhelmingly bright, I hoped, and continue to hope, for his approbation because he is so beautiful. Now, there’s a window into your own soul! Do I really prefer the approval of the beautiful over the approval of the wise? I think not, generally, but sometimes, and clearly in this case. Seeing that complexity plain eased it, and I could laugh at myself, and lap up the joy gushing forth from every seat but his.
. . . a beautiful woman whose name I forget on Jfrap’s arm. . . bewildered folk music afficionados wondering what to make of a set and chairs in their dancing place. . . . Stephanie running the house with granite efficiency. . . people I did not know taking tickets and manning the door and helping all to be well. I had to leave early for Cantaria rehearsal, missing the last act and the last accolade, and the feeling of that was bereavement, like the last day of summer camp when you’ve made so many friends you will never see again. Except I will see them, for a while, anyway. The after-production emotions were all grand and irrational, and I enjoyed every minute of them. I miss Edward. I look forward to New York, and seeing him again. When I’m there I’ll miss the cast I’ve grown to love. I’ll stop myself from saying, "that’s not the way we did it in Asheville."
Everyone worked so hard. Everything came out so well. Let me remember this blessing for at least a day or two.
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