May 25, 2009
Memorial Day. I thank God for a dim, gray day, which means I may be able to keep out of the garden.
A great rainbow burned in the east when the storms were over.
MM did me the unexpected honor of asking me to be an usher at his wedding.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
May 24, 2009
West Side Story at Reynolds last night. The girls were excellent; the boys were young. Scully’s afterward, where women at a bachelorette party were drunk and happy and dressed deliberately in the worst bridesmaids’ dresses they could find in their closets.
I think of corners to cut so that I can spend more time in the studio. I have J to thank for this.
West Side Story at Reynolds last night. The girls were excellent; the boys were young. Scully’s afterward, where women at a bachelorette party were drunk and happy and dressed deliberately in the worst bridesmaids’ dresses they could find in their closets.
I think of corners to cut so that I can spend more time in the studio. I have J to thank for this.
May 23, 2009
Great day yesterday, writing, painting (alone this time), finding a few corners in the garden to cram in a few more plants. Sold tickets at Montford, then watched Mike, Cody, and Darren perform The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Abridged, during which I laughed out loud many times. For selling tickets, they placed us on the crest of a steep hill looking down into the glistening twilight foliage of Riverside Cemetery. I need never have moved from that spot.
One of my senior seminar students (she said enough that I knew who she was) gave me a blistering critique for the class. One tries to take those things in stride, but– What she said was both true and untrue, plausible and unfair, and I carried on a disembodied argument with her all day. I would have done all the things she wanted me to do if she had asked me to do them, had it crossed my mind that anyone would need for me to do them. I would have mother henned and overseen had I not thought that would infuriate them as it would infuriate me. I sat in my office with the door open, thinking that those who needed me would come, and those who did not would work in blissful sovereignty. That there needs to be schedules and requirements for help-seeking would not spontaneously cross my mind. I know that my flaw as a teacher, as a member of the university society, is that I do not turn over rocks to find trouble beneath them; I tend to under-instruct when it comes to assignments, having rejoiced in expressive freedom when I was an undergraduate myself. I tend to think that people will ask for what they need (many students in that class did), and I don’t go out of my way to provide what would have been an imposition to me. I understood her critique, but would never have understood those qualities of the class to be faults unless someone complained of them–in time to make correction. She was the only one to provide an interview, so I don’t know if the feeling was general. Can I even learn from this? I am committed to the way of self-motivation, and may not be willing at this point to depart from it. I’m not a good teacher for those who need to be led down the path. Ah, well.
Great day yesterday, writing, painting (alone this time), finding a few corners in the garden to cram in a few more plants. Sold tickets at Montford, then watched Mike, Cody, and Darren perform The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Abridged, during which I laughed out loud many times. For selling tickets, they placed us on the crest of a steep hill looking down into the glistening twilight foliage of Riverside Cemetery. I need never have moved from that spot.
One of my senior seminar students (she said enough that I knew who she was) gave me a blistering critique for the class. One tries to take those things in stride, but– What she said was both true and untrue, plausible and unfair, and I carried on a disembodied argument with her all day. I would have done all the things she wanted me to do if she had asked me to do them, had it crossed my mind that anyone would need for me to do them. I would have mother henned and overseen had I not thought that would infuriate them as it would infuriate me. I sat in my office with the door open, thinking that those who needed me would come, and those who did not would work in blissful sovereignty. That there needs to be schedules and requirements for help-seeking would not spontaneously cross my mind. I know that my flaw as a teacher, as a member of the university society, is that I do not turn over rocks to find trouble beneath them; I tend to under-instruct when it comes to assignments, having rejoiced in expressive freedom when I was an undergraduate myself. I tend to think that people will ask for what they need (many students in that class did), and I don’t go out of my way to provide what would have been an imposition to me. I understood her critique, but would never have understood those qualities of the class to be faults unless someone complained of them–in time to make correction. She was the only one to provide an interview, so I don’t know if the feeling was general. Can I even learn from this? I am committed to the way of self-motivation, and may not be willing at this point to depart from it. I’m not a good teacher for those who need to be led down the path. Ah, well.
Friday, May 22, 2009
May 21, 2009
Went to a new masseur yesterday, Norwegian Brett, who’d screwed wooden bars to his ceiling so he could hold on and walk on people’s backs. I agreed to this, and the result was wonderful, like getting a massage from the strongest man in the world. He felt the muscles of my back and said, “Yeah, you can take it.”
Heather’s Ireland: the Legend and the Dance came off pretty well, better than one expected. In terms of audience response it came off very well indeed. Adored blond Vincent in the band, a burly rough Irishman. Made me homesick. If I had a daughter, I might prefer for her to go to Irish dance class rather than ballet, for the whole high-strung, hierarchical ballerina tone was missing from the enterprise. If I had a son, too. The one little boy was self-composed and adept, his energy clearly different from the predominant energy in the room. Heather rightly made sure his masculinity was asserted in his costumes. I said, “Buddy, you have a whole harem.” He said “Yes sir” out of politeness, not having any idea what I’d just said. At curtain call there were fifty little girls looking out at the stage, one little boy looking intently at the mechanism which was lowering the curtain.
Excellent day, writing, gardening, painting with Jason. I muddy my colors by being too impatient and painting over before things are ready. We were warned that our neighbor Ursula was trouble, but she has come over to the studio repeatedly and is sweet and curious and serious about her art, and what the problem with her was supposed to have been we can’t tell. J said that he simplified his life by calling all of his friends except five and telling them not to get back in touch with him. I found this cold, but I suppose we all do it in less direct ways. How many of my friends will I never call again, and who will disappear from my life unmourned unless we collide by accident? I couldn’t avoid thinking, “When will I get the call?”
CL phoned to tell me about the new professional theater, Altamont Theater, that a couple is starting on Church Street. It will specialize in musicals. I did not say what I thought, which is that Asheville cannot sustain another full-scale arts organization, partially because I was wrong about both NC Stage and the Arts Center, which both have found a support base. CL says they are interested in The Loves of Mr. Lincoln.
Went to a new masseur yesterday, Norwegian Brett, who’d screwed wooden bars to his ceiling so he could hold on and walk on people’s backs. I agreed to this, and the result was wonderful, like getting a massage from the strongest man in the world. He felt the muscles of my back and said, “Yeah, you can take it.”
Heather’s Ireland: the Legend and the Dance came off pretty well, better than one expected. In terms of audience response it came off very well indeed. Adored blond Vincent in the band, a burly rough Irishman. Made me homesick. If I had a daughter, I might prefer for her to go to Irish dance class rather than ballet, for the whole high-strung, hierarchical ballerina tone was missing from the enterprise. If I had a son, too. The one little boy was self-composed and adept, his energy clearly different from the predominant energy in the room. Heather rightly made sure his masculinity was asserted in his costumes. I said, “Buddy, you have a whole harem.” He said “Yes sir” out of politeness, not having any idea what I’d just said. At curtain call there were fifty little girls looking out at the stage, one little boy looking intently at the mechanism which was lowering the curtain.
Excellent day, writing, gardening, painting with Jason. I muddy my colors by being too impatient and painting over before things are ready. We were warned that our neighbor Ursula was trouble, but she has come over to the studio repeatedly and is sweet and curious and serious about her art, and what the problem with her was supposed to have been we can’t tell. J said that he simplified his life by calling all of his friends except five and telling them not to get back in touch with him. I found this cold, but I suppose we all do it in less direct ways. How many of my friends will I never call again, and who will disappear from my life unmourned unless we collide by accident? I couldn’t avoid thinking, “When will I get the call?”
CL phoned to tell me about the new professional theater, Altamont Theater, that a couple is starting on Church Street. It will specialize in musicals. I did not say what I thought, which is that Asheville cannot sustain another full-scale arts organization, partially because I was wrong about both NC Stage and the Arts Center, which both have found a support base. CL says they are interested in The Loves of Mr. Lincoln.
May 20, 2009
When I returned from New York, the garden had burst into wilderness of roses and peonies. The voodoo lily lifts its weird spear amid the roses. The valerian holds white sprays into the shade of the back yard. The lupines are Disney castle turrets of pink and red and purple. It is within a year of exactly the way I want it. A sweetness drifts from it all I the morning and evening air.
Tech and dress for Heather’s Irish dance recital last afternoon and evening. I fluffed my way through the poems, but tonight will be better. The evening will be a strange mix of the inept and the wonderful. I’d never put on a show in the state it’s in, but I must remember the primary audience will be fathers and mothers, who won’t care. The musicians– Red Wellie– are good. and there are moments when the dancers almost carry it off. No lines are straight, and some of the little ones get distracted after ten seconds on stage, though that will be dear to all the parents in the audience. It’s funny to hear Heather shouting into the mic: “Now! Now! Go now!. . . Don’t look at the floor. The floor won’t help you. . . Crystal, stop doing that. It’s very distracting.” Despite their clear differences, Heather and Ann must be made of similar stuff, and it is stuff to be feared. Putting together a dance recital is tougher than anything I have been called upon to do.
When I returned from New York, the garden had burst into wilderness of roses and peonies. The voodoo lily lifts its weird spear amid the roses. The valerian holds white sprays into the shade of the back yard. The lupines are Disney castle turrets of pink and red and purple. It is within a year of exactly the way I want it. A sweetness drifts from it all I the morning and evening air.
Tech and dress for Heather’s Irish dance recital last afternoon and evening. I fluffed my way through the poems, but tonight will be better. The evening will be a strange mix of the inept and the wonderful. I’d never put on a show in the state it’s in, but I must remember the primary audience will be fathers and mothers, who won’t care. The musicians– Red Wellie– are good. and there are moments when the dancers almost carry it off. No lines are straight, and some of the little ones get distracted after ten seconds on stage, though that will be dear to all the parents in the audience. It’s funny to hear Heather shouting into the mic: “Now! Now! Go now!. . . Don’t look at the floor. The floor won’t help you. . . Crystal, stop doing that. It’s very distracting.” Despite their clear differences, Heather and Ann must be made of similar stuff, and it is stuff to be feared. Putting together a dance recital is tougher than anything I have been called upon to do.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
May 17, 2009
Waiting for Godot last night was brilliant, and probably the bit of theater for which I came, the one that didn’t have the taint of product on it. I wish I’d seen Nathan Lane’s Estragon before I did my own. Four huge talents subordinated themselves to ensemble and to script, and the result was dazzling. . . . so dazzling that the superfluity of the second act was more apparent, but let that ride. Adam wanted autographs, so we lingered at the stage door. Nathan Lane and John Goodman were hustled to their limos by beefy bodyguards. John Glover and Bill Irwin stopped, signed autographs, got pictures taken, hobnobbed, then melted into the night on foot. May some spirit of good will bless them! After a vain search for the right bar, Steve and Adam and I ended the evening in a piano bar in the Edison. No seats were left but at the singer’s table, right in front of the piano, where one had to smile and nod and pretend one was in love with the old smoky bar standards.
I realize when I’m around people like Steve that, comparatively speaking, I have seen very little theater. In only a handful of cases can I compare one production of a play to another. My proportion of the crappy or the semi-crappy, the underground, the experimental, and student work is very high, but there’s not much occasion to chat about that. The ten other souls who saw some of these works dissolve into eternity and are found no more.
Morning stroll to Central Park in the almost-too-cold wind. It’s the date of the New York AIDS walk, and hundreds of people gathered with the names of their lost loved ones on their t-shirts. Went to Columbus Circle, bought a cappuccino for myself and a croissant for the birds. I fed them from my hands. It was the most joy I’ve had this weekend. A derelict who was watching said, “I wish somebody cared about me as much as you care about those birds.” I gave him $20. He bought coffee and a croissant, and crumbled the croissant for the birds, even as I had done.
Evening. S and A are gone, and I have had my meeting with the Foundation, and there are no shows, and I withdraw to my room a block from Times Square, feeling a little–lonely.
Waiting for Godot last night was brilliant, and probably the bit of theater for which I came, the one that didn’t have the taint of product on it. I wish I’d seen Nathan Lane’s Estragon before I did my own. Four huge talents subordinated themselves to ensemble and to script, and the result was dazzling. . . . so dazzling that the superfluity of the second act was more apparent, but let that ride. Adam wanted autographs, so we lingered at the stage door. Nathan Lane and John Goodman were hustled to their limos by beefy bodyguards. John Glover and Bill Irwin stopped, signed autographs, got pictures taken, hobnobbed, then melted into the night on foot. May some spirit of good will bless them! After a vain search for the right bar, Steve and Adam and I ended the evening in a piano bar in the Edison. No seats were left but at the singer’s table, right in front of the piano, where one had to smile and nod and pretend one was in love with the old smoky bar standards.
I realize when I’m around people like Steve that, comparatively speaking, I have seen very little theater. In only a handful of cases can I compare one production of a play to another. My proportion of the crappy or the semi-crappy, the underground, the experimental, and student work is very high, but there’s not much occasion to chat about that. The ten other souls who saw some of these works dissolve into eternity and are found no more.
Morning stroll to Central Park in the almost-too-cold wind. It’s the date of the New York AIDS walk, and hundreds of people gathered with the names of their lost loved ones on their t-shirts. Went to Columbus Circle, bought a cappuccino for myself and a croissant for the birds. I fed them from my hands. It was the most joy I’ve had this weekend. A derelict who was watching said, “I wish somebody cared about me as much as you care about those birds.” I gave him $20. He bought coffee and a croissant, and crumbled the croissant for the birds, even as I had done.
Evening. S and A are gone, and I have had my meeting with the Foundation, and there are no shows, and I withdraw to my room a block from Times Square, feeling a little–lonely.
May 16, 2009
Breakfast with S and A, then along the 6th Ave. street fair, then off to MOMA, which I enjoyed more than I did the last couple of visits. Miro made the deepest impression. Bought toys. Schiller’s Mary Stuart in the afternoon– a great and majestic play, whose day was not today. My knee hurt, and it was too easy to foresee all before the end, so I left at intermission. Had lunch with two 13 year old girls and the mother of one of them, who had also left at intermission. The theater crowd is not attuned to plays like Mary Stuart as they are to, say, Jersey Boys, for it was a purgatory of paper rattling and candy unwrapping and random ringing of cell phones, about which a warning was apparently not sufficient. Maybe it’s just that when a play is miced to a fare-thee-well, all the rattling and wheezing is not heard. I have no complaint, though; somehow the day is turning out exactly the way I wanted it to.
Breakfast with S and A, then along the 6th Ave. street fair, then off to MOMA, which I enjoyed more than I did the last couple of visits. Miro made the deepest impression. Bought toys. Schiller’s Mary Stuart in the afternoon– a great and majestic play, whose day was not today. My knee hurt, and it was too easy to foresee all before the end, so I left at intermission. Had lunch with two 13 year old girls and the mother of one of them, who had also left at intermission. The theater crowd is not attuned to plays like Mary Stuart as they are to, say, Jersey Boys, for it was a purgatory of paper rattling and candy unwrapping and random ringing of cell phones, about which a warning was apparently not sufficient. Maybe it’s just that when a play is miced to a fare-thee-well, all the rattling and wheezing is not heard. I have no complaint, though; somehow the day is turning out exactly the way I wanted it to.
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