July 27, 2009
For the first time, I’m investing in a Broadway show. It’s Leslie Jordan’s My Trip Down the Pink Carpet, and Bruce was on me so much about it I gave in. I know hordes of people who are wild about Jordan and the sort of thing he does. Will Jones says he saw Jordan in Atlanta and he was “hilarious.” The budget seems modest enough that gaining expenses back is plausible. (I say that without having any idea what is plausible in this milieu and what isn’t) But the final allurement is to be part of the industry that I have– well, chosen to be part of. A kind of putting my money where my mouth is. I do wish it were something. . . more me. Shows that are more “me” did not ask. A point is not so much money that I would grieve if I lost it, so here goes. I use “point” as though I knew what it was before this afternoon, which I didn’t. Bruce was on me about this because he wanted me to be “part of the family.” Sweet. OK, I say I do.
Painted in the morning, began to research the Black Mountain play I promised to do and now have no idea how to begin.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
July 26, 2009
I could see the Bele Cher fireworks from my porch. Not only were they spectacular, but the noise of them set up a reverberation among the surrounding hills that was quite magnificent, and lingered after the explosions themselves were gone.
Late night. Starting at dusk, I took a long walk southward, getting sicker as I walked, till the return up Kimberly was an exercise in finding places and moments to puke between houses and the prying lights of cars. While I was figuring out what THAT was about (elderly sour cream in my soup, perhaps), other thoughts came to my head, melancholy thoughts, I suppose, but thoughts edged nevertheless with energy. I think I was telling myself–self-cleansing body and brain both–that everything that came before is gone. All potential from times past is lapsed, all ungathered treasures are ungathered forever, all loose ends loose till the end of days. No love from that time will continue into the time that is before me. No hope from that time will be realized in the time that is before me. I can Google; I can Facebook, but the responses will be echoes of voices changed so that I’ll hardly understand them. I can demand redress for old wrongs, but even if successful, that’s all I’ll get: redress for old wrongs. I do not think that’s what I want. If I turn back and dwell there, I am lost. If I fight a war that is already over, my defeat is permanent. Luckily, I have no desire to turn back and dwell there. I have no desire to take up arms. I really do have nothing but the future, and there were moments-- under the hazy moon, bent over being sick on the grass– when that seemed the strangest, deepest blessing.
I could see the Bele Cher fireworks from my porch. Not only were they spectacular, but the noise of them set up a reverberation among the surrounding hills that was quite magnificent, and lingered after the explosions themselves were gone.
Late night. Starting at dusk, I took a long walk southward, getting sicker as I walked, till the return up Kimberly was an exercise in finding places and moments to puke between houses and the prying lights of cars. While I was figuring out what THAT was about (elderly sour cream in my soup, perhaps), other thoughts came to my head, melancholy thoughts, I suppose, but thoughts edged nevertheless with energy. I think I was telling myself–self-cleansing body and brain both–that everything that came before is gone. All potential from times past is lapsed, all ungathered treasures are ungathered forever, all loose ends loose till the end of days. No love from that time will continue into the time that is before me. No hope from that time will be realized in the time that is before me. I can Google; I can Facebook, but the responses will be echoes of voices changed so that I’ll hardly understand them. I can demand redress for old wrongs, but even if successful, that’s all I’ll get: redress for old wrongs. I do not think that’s what I want. If I turn back and dwell there, I am lost. If I fight a war that is already over, my defeat is permanent. Luckily, I have no desire to turn back and dwell there. I have no desire to take up arms. I really do have nothing but the future, and there were moments-- under the hazy moon, bent over being sick on the grass– when that seemed the strangest, deepest blessing.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
July 25, 2009
Mother’s birthday.
I finished Earthly Power this morning. I began it after I returned from New York, which was July 17. Finished in a week and a day. All day I have walked around with the buoyancy that comes with a task accomplished, and accomplished in joy. Last night I was stuck; this morning the solution, and the finish, came to me as easy as a morning dream. One of the few truths I have carried through all my days as a creator is that if you’re working too hard, you’re doing it wrong.
Painted with J for a while. Our brotherly romance has made me wonder what could have been in the past had I accepted relationships as offered, without worrying whether they were meant to be, or could be, something else. I drive past the studio twice a day, and if he’s not there I drive on, and if he’s there I climb and paint. Only that, and that is enough.
Bought a rocking chair during a brief sojourn in Weaverville the other day. It was delivered today, and I sat in it on the porch, reading the last of the Percy Jackson series and looking out over the garden. The garden erupts in primary colors, red and yellow and white, mingling into hot and cool pinks and oranges, purple at the edges like evening shadow. I am not a pure or a fussy gardener. The host of great mullein spearing the sky are volunteers, and if a weed or a seedling grows where it is not bothering anything else, I let it grow. I think in this way my garden is like the world, a balance of things planned and things unplanned, some of it beautiful by design, some of it beautiful by accident, here and there a swollen gold tomato like the fruit of the Hesperides.
Drove to a gym in South Asheville to talk with Kelly, a former student about training. I met his son, a ten year old with a hearing aid. We talked about Percy Jackson, which he finished before and I finished this evening sitting in my rocking chair. I told him I was in the scariest part, and he assured me that the ending would be “very good” and I shouldn’t be afraid.
Lots of e-mail traffic about Turtle Shell’s summer shorts, which includes my Werewolves of London. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to respond to and what let fly past me. I am glad, anyway, for the flurry of activity.
Mother’s birthday.
I finished Earthly Power this morning. I began it after I returned from New York, which was July 17. Finished in a week and a day. All day I have walked around with the buoyancy that comes with a task accomplished, and accomplished in joy. Last night I was stuck; this morning the solution, and the finish, came to me as easy as a morning dream. One of the few truths I have carried through all my days as a creator is that if you’re working too hard, you’re doing it wrong.
Painted with J for a while. Our brotherly romance has made me wonder what could have been in the past had I accepted relationships as offered, without worrying whether they were meant to be, or could be, something else. I drive past the studio twice a day, and if he’s not there I drive on, and if he’s there I climb and paint. Only that, and that is enough.
Bought a rocking chair during a brief sojourn in Weaverville the other day. It was delivered today, and I sat in it on the porch, reading the last of the Percy Jackson series and looking out over the garden. The garden erupts in primary colors, red and yellow and white, mingling into hot and cool pinks and oranges, purple at the edges like evening shadow. I am not a pure or a fussy gardener. The host of great mullein spearing the sky are volunteers, and if a weed or a seedling grows where it is not bothering anything else, I let it grow. I think in this way my garden is like the world, a balance of things planned and things unplanned, some of it beautiful by design, some of it beautiful by accident, here and there a swollen gold tomato like the fruit of the Hesperides.
Drove to a gym in South Asheville to talk with Kelly, a former student about training. I met his son, a ten year old with a hearing aid. We talked about Percy Jackson, which he finished before and I finished this evening sitting in my rocking chair. I told him I was in the scariest part, and he assured me that the ending would be “very good” and I shouldn’t be afraid.
Lots of e-mail traffic about Turtle Shell’s summer shorts, which includes my Werewolves of London. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to respond to and what let fly past me. I am glad, anyway, for the flurry of activity.
July 24, 2009
A magazine tells me I have Morton’s Toe on my left foot, which may help explain the misalignment and joint pain. MM says it's a sign of great intelligence, he having it himself.
My year-end faculty evaluation reveals that I teach the most students in the department. The best part of it is that I never noticed.
A magazine tells me I have Morton’s Toe on my left foot, which may help explain the misalignment and joint pain. MM says it's a sign of great intelligence, he having it himself.
My year-end faculty evaluation reveals that I teach the most students in the department. The best part of it is that I never noticed.
July 22, 2009
The garden–now in a veil of silver rain–is yellow and red, like a garden a child would draw. The cannas are just now coming into bloom. Each year I am surprised to re-learn that they are gold fringed with orange, like clear flame. Inventing recipes to deal with the bounty from the vines.
Work rushing forward on Earthly Power. The successes of New York gave me confidence.
Working out twice a day, and still have energy to spare.
The garden–now in a veil of silver rain–is yellow and red, like a garden a child would draw. The cannas are just now coming into bloom. Each year I am surprised to re-learn that they are gold fringed with orange, like clear flame. Inventing recipes to deal with the bounty from the vines.
Work rushing forward on Earthly Power. The successes of New York gave me confidence.
Working out twice a day, and still have energy to spare.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
July 20, 2009
My energy was so enduring yesterday that I hiked to the Grove Park Inn at dusk and had a couple of cocktails in the main lobby, while a singer warbled countrified pop standards. As I drank, I breathed out a wish for some sort of adventure before the night was over, and that wish was granted. As I walked back home in the darkness, I heard the sound of a violin. Someone was playing a violin from a porch on Country Club Road. There was no traffic, and I was obscured from any light by the overhang of trees, so I danced in the middle of the road, danced in the darkness to the music of an unseen fiddle.
Werewolves of London has been chosen as part of Turtle Shell Production’s festival of summer shorts. Details forthcoming. It might mean another trip to New York.
My energy was so enduring yesterday that I hiked to the Grove Park Inn at dusk and had a couple of cocktails in the main lobby, while a singer warbled countrified pop standards. As I drank, I breathed out a wish for some sort of adventure before the night was over, and that wish was granted. As I walked back home in the darkness, I heard the sound of a violin. Someone was playing a violin from a porch on Country Club Road. There was no traffic, and I was obscured from any light by the overhang of trees, so I danced in the middle of the road, danced in the darkness to the music of an unseen fiddle.
Werewolves of London has been chosen as part of Turtle Shell Production’s festival of summer shorts. Details forthcoming. It might mean another trip to New York.
July 18, 2009
Much rain in my absence turned the garden into a jungle. I’m just venturing out into it, blades in hand. Harvested three zucchinis that, together, must have weighed 30 pounds. Harvested a perfect flame of rose for my mantel. The hibiscus came into full flower, pink and white and scarlet and pink-and-white striped. Zach called what he can see of it from his house, “a slow explosion.”
Painted with J and M, not long, though, the spirit being elsewhere in me. Instead, I weeded joyfully, thoroughly, though not quite finally. Harvested the first of the golden tomatoes.
The books I bought in Ireland are arriving. They’re mostly gifts, but one I got for myself is a huge volume of James Barry, the Irish history painter. I personally like his work, but I can see that in some ways it is ridiculous: big, laborious paintings about ridiculous (or unpaintable) subjects, or rendered at the moment when emotions are the most implausible. I study the paintings trying to figure why, addressing essentially the same subject, Poussin is eternally sublime, and Barry needs excuses to be made about his time and place. I recognize in myself a certain likeness with Barry. In both poetry and painting, I do not always choose the workable subject, but sometimes dwell on an image in my imagination which is either irreproducible, or beyond my skill. The Greeks triumphed by portraying the inhalation of calm between exertions. Barry wants the white-hot moment, a thing beyond his skills, and, unless one were Caravaggio, beyond anyone’s. Yet I like him. I understand what he’s up to. I sit here thinking back on all the times when I did the same, when what was a masterpiece in my head was baffling or meaningless to the world.
Much rain in my absence turned the garden into a jungle. I’m just venturing out into it, blades in hand. Harvested three zucchinis that, together, must have weighed 30 pounds. Harvested a perfect flame of rose for my mantel. The hibiscus came into full flower, pink and white and scarlet and pink-and-white striped. Zach called what he can see of it from his house, “a slow explosion.”
Painted with J and M, not long, though, the spirit being elsewhere in me. Instead, I weeded joyfully, thoroughly, though not quite finally. Harvested the first of the golden tomatoes.
The books I bought in Ireland are arriving. They’re mostly gifts, but one I got for myself is a huge volume of James Barry, the Irish history painter. I personally like his work, but I can see that in some ways it is ridiculous: big, laborious paintings about ridiculous (or unpaintable) subjects, or rendered at the moment when emotions are the most implausible. I study the paintings trying to figure why, addressing essentially the same subject, Poussin is eternally sublime, and Barry needs excuses to be made about his time and place. I recognize in myself a certain likeness with Barry. In both poetry and painting, I do not always choose the workable subject, but sometimes dwell on an image in my imagination which is either irreproducible, or beyond my skill. The Greeks triumphed by portraying the inhalation of calm between exertions. Barry wants the white-hot moment, a thing beyond his skills, and, unless one were Caravaggio, beyond anyone’s. Yet I like him. I understand what he’s up to. I sit here thinking back on all the times when I did the same, when what was a masterpiece in my head was baffling or meaningless to the world.
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