June 30, 2010
Fabulous dream before waking. We had gone camping in a great stony wilderness beside the sea. In places the stone was carved into grottoes and convolutions by the water; in places humans had driven tunnels and even left sculpture behind to be re-fashioned by the waves. I don’t remember who all was there, but I think a large company of my friends, including DJ and Peg Downes. It was very rough, and the landscape was so irregular it was hard learning your way around, but very beautiful. When you went out on an expedition, the stone would be dry sometimes, sometimes filling with the tide. I could run very fast over the stones and through the gathering waters. I noted this because I have never run fast in the waking world. Above the rough coast was a sort of parkland, where the less adventurous dwelt. We were in a huge grotto, cool and echoing, just above the tide. One evening coming back through the parkland, I saw a disturbance. I thought a kestrel was attacking a little red dog, but as I watched, the dog fled away for its life, and revealed that it and the kestrel both had been attacking a grouse. The kestrel had it to itself now, and was stabbing it with long claws. As it did, baby grouse scuttled away from where they had been hidden in their mother’s feathers.
Second trip to the Fitzwilliam, and second clash with the door guards. As before, we triumphed, though if by defiance the first time, but subterfuge the second. I sent part of the group ahead, so they were in before we were detected. When they sent us around to the other entrance to book with the group supervisor, we again spread ourselves out so we didn’t look so many, aided in our caper by a couple dozen rowdy Italian students who appeared at the same moment. The important thing, in any case, is not to do what one is told. The Fitzwilliam has an important collection, but the guards behave like six year olds determined to rule their corner of the playground. Found the Rothschild gallery, full of almost unimaginably beautiful things from the Middle Ages. Found “Orpheus Charming the Birds and the Beasts.”
Cambridge is forty feet deep in the perfume of the lime trees. It is an altogether blessed thing. Because of the way their blossoms cascade, they look jittery when you glance at them, like an old fashioned TV whose picture will not stop rolling.
Hiked for old time’s sake to 134 Milton Road. The journey seems less than the winter I had to make it twice a day. Much has changed, whole buildings, whole blocks, and though there were hints of old feelings, the nostalgia quotient was low, and I suppose that was well. My winter in Cambridge forty years ago was revolutionary. It wrenched me from whatever path I had been on and set me–rightly-- on the one that led to this spot and this time. I have always done things very gradually, or so it seems to me, and most of the life that started one night when I crossed Jesus Green by starlight manifested slowly, to many invisibly. My parents thought the term likely a waste of money, I talked about it so little and so guardedly. But I know what happened and what the consequences were. I do regret not moving faster, harder, with less compromise, but given the circumstances of my life, it’s hard to see how that could have been done without major upheaval and explanations beyond my willingness to explain. Who knows what actually has come of it? If it was all a futility, it was at least a futility more genuinely my own than what I had been headed for at my birth.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Cambridge XI
June 29, 2010
Dreadful dreams last night– not that they affected me badly, but that they were brutal and I was rather enjoying them. There was a kind of war in which one combatant on each side faced the other at a time, and devised novel ways of sneaking in and slashing the other to ribbons. As I was waking, my conscious self had a moment to pass judgment on my savage subconscious.
Took ten of the kids to an Indian restaurant last night. One thing I’ve noted is the wide variety of revulsions and abhorrences cultivated by our students. One cannot touch baby powder or anything dry and powdery. Several cannot have their various foods touching in their plate, and if they do they cannot eat it. Sometimes the rules apply to all and any foods; sometimes they are specific. One cannot eat if peas are served– to anyone, anywhere One buys an expensive meal and cannot eat it because it contains cilantro. The next day she is still a little upset from the intrusion of cilantro into her life. One cannot have food touching her lip, so scrapes everything off her fork–audibly–with her teeth. Two hate birds. One hates horses. One cannot sit down at a table or in a classroom unless he is the last to do so. Not a meal passes when someone doesn’t cry out, “Oh, I cannot eat such-and such,” not because they CANNOT, but because it makes them feel funny or it has some tainted association. One keeps silent. Took this motley assemblage to Kettle’s Yard this morning, a unique and wonderful museum no more than five minutes’ walk from our doors. Add it to the long list of places I’d never been in a town I thought I’d covered pretty well. Kettle’s Yard is a series of small houses made into a big house, and that turned into a living space that was more than 2/3 museum. The work is Modern, abounding in excellent sculpture, the paintings second level but tasteful, mostly in, now that I think of it, a calm whitish-to brownish spectrum that must have been easy to live amid. It invites and allows seated contemplation. I did sketches in pencil, of the objects, but also of me living happily and imaginarily in such and environment. Were my house six time its size, no reason why I couldn’t achieve the same thing. Graelin and Matt the Littler seemed particularly taken, and lingered long after they needed to. Jeff gamely leads the way whenever he can, and refuses to let his accident keep him from Evensong.
I believe I hit stride today– which is, my Cambridge life and my Real life harmonized almost upon a moment, and I no longer felt furtive and on-the-wrong-track. Maybe the success of the Byron play helped; maybe it was just endurance.
All the students are dear to me. One does not expect that. There is usually one whose neck needs to be wrung.
Evensong at Kings, XXth century music, rich in contrasting effects, poor in structure or conviction or meaning–as was, I suppose, the century in which it was written. The quality of light made the glass especially buttery and beautiful.
Went finally to the Cambridge Fine Arts Theater to see Quartet by Ronald Harwood, about four aged opera singers in a home. . . apparently for aged opera singers. It was well acted, with a skeletal Susannah York in the cast, and most of the audience old enough to remember when Susannah York was not a skeleton at all. I had great hopes for the script: it was witty, did not insult the intelligence, was well (if a little too well) structured, but it dodged greatness at about the mid point and took a power dive by the end. The death-march to the foreseeable denouement could have been deflected a little if, at the end, the quartet from Rigoletto had been sung by the croaking old relics they knew themselves to be, and if then they had been triumphant, recognizing who they were at the moment, being at peace with themselves and what was passed. That would have been heroic. That would have been real and transcendent at once. Instead, there was a mortifying lip-synch to a recording, and a red projected sunset behind. The wily old coots fool everybody (though it’s hard to imagine that anyone really would have been fooled) by playing a recording of their former selves, so vanity and illusion rule an end that could have been ruled by broken majesty. Maybe the producers insisted. Still, it does dishonor to the playwright’s craft and to the dignity of old age. I did enjoy the evening. That must be said. But outside my little room of enjoyment was a wilderness of outrage.
The Fine Arts lingers in memory because there I heard Michael Macliamoir recite Yeats, the first I had ever heard of that great poet, and the beginning of an enduring love.
Ordered a vodka tonic for the interval, and got a vodka and Coke, Turned out not to be too disgusting.
The red sunset made me think of my father, who painted a red sunset on his garage door to signal the ending of his life. What did he hold as the brilliant, memorable, irreplaceable moment of his life? I burst into tears, because I didn’t know. What must the people on the street have thought?
Dreadful dreams last night– not that they affected me badly, but that they were brutal and I was rather enjoying them. There was a kind of war in which one combatant on each side faced the other at a time, and devised novel ways of sneaking in and slashing the other to ribbons. As I was waking, my conscious self had a moment to pass judgment on my savage subconscious.
Took ten of the kids to an Indian restaurant last night. One thing I’ve noted is the wide variety of revulsions and abhorrences cultivated by our students. One cannot touch baby powder or anything dry and powdery. Several cannot have their various foods touching in their plate, and if they do they cannot eat it. Sometimes the rules apply to all and any foods; sometimes they are specific. One cannot eat if peas are served– to anyone, anywhere One buys an expensive meal and cannot eat it because it contains cilantro. The next day she is still a little upset from the intrusion of cilantro into her life. One cannot have food touching her lip, so scrapes everything off her fork–audibly–with her teeth. Two hate birds. One hates horses. One cannot sit down at a table or in a classroom unless he is the last to do so. Not a meal passes when someone doesn’t cry out, “Oh, I cannot eat such-and such,” not because they CANNOT, but because it makes them feel funny or it has some tainted association. One keeps silent. Took this motley assemblage to Kettle’s Yard this morning, a unique and wonderful museum no more than five minutes’ walk from our doors. Add it to the long list of places I’d never been in a town I thought I’d covered pretty well. Kettle’s Yard is a series of small houses made into a big house, and that turned into a living space that was more than 2/3 museum. The work is Modern, abounding in excellent sculpture, the paintings second level but tasteful, mostly in, now that I think of it, a calm whitish-to brownish spectrum that must have been easy to live amid. It invites and allows seated contemplation. I did sketches in pencil, of the objects, but also of me living happily and imaginarily in such and environment. Were my house six time its size, no reason why I couldn’t achieve the same thing. Graelin and Matt the Littler seemed particularly taken, and lingered long after they needed to. Jeff gamely leads the way whenever he can, and refuses to let his accident keep him from Evensong.
I believe I hit stride today– which is, my Cambridge life and my Real life harmonized almost upon a moment, and I no longer felt furtive and on-the-wrong-track. Maybe the success of the Byron play helped; maybe it was just endurance.
All the students are dear to me. One does not expect that. There is usually one whose neck needs to be wrung.
Evensong at Kings, XXth century music, rich in contrasting effects, poor in structure or conviction or meaning–as was, I suppose, the century in which it was written. The quality of light made the glass especially buttery and beautiful.
Went finally to the Cambridge Fine Arts Theater to see Quartet by Ronald Harwood, about four aged opera singers in a home. . . apparently for aged opera singers. It was well acted, with a skeletal Susannah York in the cast, and most of the audience old enough to remember when Susannah York was not a skeleton at all. I had great hopes for the script: it was witty, did not insult the intelligence, was well (if a little too well) structured, but it dodged greatness at about the mid point and took a power dive by the end. The death-march to the foreseeable denouement could have been deflected a little if, at the end, the quartet from Rigoletto had been sung by the croaking old relics they knew themselves to be, and if then they had been triumphant, recognizing who they were at the moment, being at peace with themselves and what was passed. That would have been heroic. That would have been real and transcendent at once. Instead, there was a mortifying lip-synch to a recording, and a red projected sunset behind. The wily old coots fool everybody (though it’s hard to imagine that anyone really would have been fooled) by playing a recording of their former selves, so vanity and illusion rule an end that could have been ruled by broken majesty. Maybe the producers insisted. Still, it does dishonor to the playwright’s craft and to the dignity of old age. I did enjoy the evening. That must be said. But outside my little room of enjoyment was a wilderness of outrage.
The Fine Arts lingers in memory because there I heard Michael Macliamoir recite Yeats, the first I had ever heard of that great poet, and the beginning of an enduring love.
Ordered a vodka tonic for the interval, and got a vodka and Coke, Turned out not to be too disgusting.
The red sunset made me think of my father, who painted a red sunset on his garage door to signal the ending of his life. What did he hold as the brilliant, memorable, irreplaceable moment of his life? I burst into tears, because I didn’t know. What must the people on the street have thought?
Monday, June 28, 2010
Cambridge 10
June 28, 2010
Visit to the Barton School today, as near as I can tell an idyll of happy memories and dedicated teachers. I wanted to play with the kids. Hell, I wanted to BE one of them, starting all over in a different world.
Off then in perfect weather to Ely Cathedral. The roadsides were dressed in orange and lavender as poppy and thistle interspersed. I’ve been to Ely several times now, and each time the first glance at the mighty nave is awe-inspiring. In its day it must have been as unanswerable as the pyramids. I saw Queen Phillipa and her retinue entering the south doors. This was the first time I climbed to the Lantern. I am the Official Encourager, so it wouldn’t have done for me to refuse, though narrow staircases and high parapets have never been high among my preferences. But all, was well, One of us could not fit through the door from the roof, and one hand a panic attack on the stairs, but other than that it was clear sailing. My knee is a mess, but the staircase was so narrow I could do most of the climbing with my arms. It has been a climbing week for me already, as last night, the pubs closing early and I not ready to retire, I climbed the Castle mound for the first time. It is. . . well, not disappointing, but not breathtaking either. Kings looks like a rowboat tied to four poles upon a lake of roofs. I felt I couldn’t linger, as a boy was sitting with his arm awkwardly around a girl, and he was explaining in a rather stern voice and she was sobbing. I came up and went down so quietly they didn’t know I was there. Made friends with a puppy at the bottom. His owner had just been taken to the hospital, and his caretaker offered me ownership. “See, he likes you already!”
The bus passed Maggie’s house. There’s a new coat of white paint and a fine blue trim. I felt better.
Visit to the Barton School today, as near as I can tell an idyll of happy memories and dedicated teachers. I wanted to play with the kids. Hell, I wanted to BE one of them, starting all over in a different world.
Off then in perfect weather to Ely Cathedral. The roadsides were dressed in orange and lavender as poppy and thistle interspersed. I’ve been to Ely several times now, and each time the first glance at the mighty nave is awe-inspiring. In its day it must have been as unanswerable as the pyramids. I saw Queen Phillipa and her retinue entering the south doors. This was the first time I climbed to the Lantern. I am the Official Encourager, so it wouldn’t have done for me to refuse, though narrow staircases and high parapets have never been high among my preferences. But all, was well, One of us could not fit through the door from the roof, and one hand a panic attack on the stairs, but other than that it was clear sailing. My knee is a mess, but the staircase was so narrow I could do most of the climbing with my arms. It has been a climbing week for me already, as last night, the pubs closing early and I not ready to retire, I climbed the Castle mound for the first time. It is. . . well, not disappointing, but not breathtaking either. Kings looks like a rowboat tied to four poles upon a lake of roofs. I felt I couldn’t linger, as a boy was sitting with his arm awkwardly around a girl, and he was explaining in a rather stern voice and she was sobbing. I came up and went down so quietly they didn’t know I was there. Made friends with a puppy at the bottom. His owner had just been taken to the hospital, and his caretaker offered me ownership. “See, he likes you already!”
The bus passed Maggie’s house. There’s a new coat of white paint and a fine blue trim. I felt better.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Cambridge 9
June 27, 2010
Our charges had an exciting night last night after the American defeat. Sarah, leading the girls footloose and inebriate on the streets of Cambridge, solicited a midnight punting jaunt from some professional punters. I hope the girls know how long they will cherish that experience, whatever becomes of the boy after. A young man was standing alone at the bar last night. I perceived he was American, and drew him into our group. His name is Adrian, and he is here because the Cornell track team is making a tour of England. He runs the steeplechase. Now the girls declare there was never anything like him (Kasey is seriously hooked), and he thinks I’m altogether remarkable, and nothing like his professors at Cornell. His dad grew up in Akron, and I knew all the places he spoke of in Ithaca. Small world and all that. After such a night, only Bethany arose and accompanied me to Eucharist at St. John’s this brilliant morning, where they sang the Mozart “Ave Verum Corpus” and the Hayden Little Organ Mass. . . which they played. . . on a little organ. The singing was surprisingly imperfect. However, I am one of perhaps a minority who prefers St. John’s to Kings’ (the choir, not the building), for the greater richness and humanity of its tone.
I didn’t make it to the dance. It was too far to walk, nor was I even certain that the placed I mapped was the place Steve meant. Other new friends have conversations over cups of tea--
England showed itself off worse than we in its game with Germany today, which we watched with a throng of Brits at the County Arms, where the bartenders love us for bringing crowds.
Evening drink at an Italian open-air place on the edge of the Market. Thought long and hard about what I had to think on. I had wanted to go to a play reading, but was told it was sold out. I didn’t believe it, but I stalked on, disappointed, muttering. I don’t deal very well with “no,” except in those rare situations in which I am convinced it is the real and final answer. Motorcyclists roared through the streets in a gesture, I think, of defiance of the university, now that that overwhelming institution is dispersed for the summer. Am I having “fun” here? I’m not sure I am, though everything we do is improving, exciting, memorable. I feel I’m not really doing what I’m MEANT to be doing, though working on the Byron play might address that. I’m not enjoying myself as much as I’m sure I will in retrospect. No problem students– well, maybe one, but he is from another school, and wanders off alone to get, I’m afraid, too drunk and too mouthy. I did not make a rule about going out alone, but now I wish I had. Everyone else commits their indiscretions, at least, in goodly company. Now that I think of it, that “problem” student is exactly like me. Except I trusted myself to go unscathed.
Spanish students (come to learn English) play soccer on the LC lawn, probably the roughest usage it’s ever had. There are clear stars. The ones who are not stars but who yet make a daring play are given rounds of applause.
Our charges had an exciting night last night after the American defeat. Sarah, leading the girls footloose and inebriate on the streets of Cambridge, solicited a midnight punting jaunt from some professional punters. I hope the girls know how long they will cherish that experience, whatever becomes of the boy after. A young man was standing alone at the bar last night. I perceived he was American, and drew him into our group. His name is Adrian, and he is here because the Cornell track team is making a tour of England. He runs the steeplechase. Now the girls declare there was never anything like him (Kasey is seriously hooked), and he thinks I’m altogether remarkable, and nothing like his professors at Cornell. His dad grew up in Akron, and I knew all the places he spoke of in Ithaca. Small world and all that. After such a night, only Bethany arose and accompanied me to Eucharist at St. John’s this brilliant morning, where they sang the Mozart “Ave Verum Corpus” and the Hayden Little Organ Mass. . . which they played. . . on a little organ. The singing was surprisingly imperfect. However, I am one of perhaps a minority who prefers St. John’s to Kings’ (the choir, not the building), for the greater richness and humanity of its tone.
I didn’t make it to the dance. It was too far to walk, nor was I even certain that the placed I mapped was the place Steve meant. Other new friends have conversations over cups of tea--
England showed itself off worse than we in its game with Germany today, which we watched with a throng of Brits at the County Arms, where the bartenders love us for bringing crowds.
Evening drink at an Italian open-air place on the edge of the Market. Thought long and hard about what I had to think on. I had wanted to go to a play reading, but was told it was sold out. I didn’t believe it, but I stalked on, disappointed, muttering. I don’t deal very well with “no,” except in those rare situations in which I am convinced it is the real and final answer. Motorcyclists roared through the streets in a gesture, I think, of defiance of the university, now that that overwhelming institution is dispersed for the summer. Am I having “fun” here? I’m not sure I am, though everything we do is improving, exciting, memorable. I feel I’m not really doing what I’m MEANT to be doing, though working on the Byron play might address that. I’m not enjoying myself as much as I’m sure I will in retrospect. No problem students– well, maybe one, but he is from another school, and wanders off alone to get, I’m afraid, too drunk and too mouthy. I did not make a rule about going out alone, but now I wish I had. Everyone else commits their indiscretions, at least, in goodly company. Now that I think of it, that “problem” student is exactly like me. Except I trusted myself to go unscathed.
Spanish students (come to learn English) play soccer on the LC lawn, probably the roughest usage it’s ever had. There are clear stars. The ones who are not stars but who yet make a daring play are given rounds of applause.
Cambridge 8
June 26, 2010
Steve phoned late yesterday evening, and I went to him. We are to go to some sort of dance tonight, though I can’t figure out where it is. He was taking his girlfriend: whether he dropped her, we’ll be a threesome, or she was a fiction all along I don’t know. He did show me the photos of his two daughters, right after he showed me his favorite fortunes from the Chinese restaurant. When people are talking about what they’re doing tonight, I’m tempted to say, “I have a date,” but I suppose discretion to be preferable, at least for the moment. S is not the kind of person you share, except under very special circumstances. I’ll probably watch the US/Ghana match along with everybody else, then totter around Cambridge looking for a dance.
Began writing a play about Byron’s pool. Something has been “wrong” or “off” about this trip, something minor but pervasive, and I think it’s possible that I haven’t had a major project to be working on, haven’t had an anchor. Maybe this is it. The kids are looking after themselves; Jeff knows he can call on me if he needs me; I have no idea what S wants or needs in a run longer than a night; perhaps I am meant now to look after myself
Gave up the Lord Nelson Mass to watch the USA/Ghana match with the group. It was the right idea, though the match was a disappointment. The Yanks were never fully on the field. My immediate neighbors were French who, rude, malodorous, and hysterically anti-American, seemed like they were trying to fulfill as many stereotypes as they could in a short period of time.
I was on the castle mound when the moon rose blood red.
Steve phoned late yesterday evening, and I went to him. We are to go to some sort of dance tonight, though I can’t figure out where it is. He was taking his girlfriend: whether he dropped her, we’ll be a threesome, or she was a fiction all along I don’t know. He did show me the photos of his two daughters, right after he showed me his favorite fortunes from the Chinese restaurant. When people are talking about what they’re doing tonight, I’m tempted to say, “I have a date,” but I suppose discretion to be preferable, at least for the moment. S is not the kind of person you share, except under very special circumstances. I’ll probably watch the US/Ghana match along with everybody else, then totter around Cambridge looking for a dance.
Began writing a play about Byron’s pool. Something has been “wrong” or “off” about this trip, something minor but pervasive, and I think it’s possible that I haven’t had a major project to be working on, haven’t had an anchor. Maybe this is it. The kids are looking after themselves; Jeff knows he can call on me if he needs me; I have no idea what S wants or needs in a run longer than a night; perhaps I am meant now to look after myself
Gave up the Lord Nelson Mass to watch the USA/Ghana match with the group. It was the right idea, though the match was a disappointment. The Yanks were never fully on the field. My immediate neighbors were French who, rude, malodorous, and hysterically anti-American, seemed like they were trying to fulfill as many stereotypes as they could in a short period of time.
I was on the castle mound when the moon rose blood red.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Cambridge 7
June 25, 2010
Met Steve at the Pickerel last night. It was Mystical Drunk Night as the night before had been Rowdy Football Fans night. Steve asked my name, and when told him said, “I am writing a book whose main character is named David. He meets seven other men who are also named David.” Turns out that the Davids are the mystical cities of the Apocalypse in the book of Revelation, and that the main David is Ephesus, and when he saw me he was shocked, as he says the description of the angel Ephesus is one “with a golden head and the face of a child,” and he assumed I’d come to start the Apocalypse, and he had been chosen as witness–an event he had already anticipated. I think he was serious, in a way, in the sense of creating a fiction so intriguing to him he decided to live in it. I’d ask, “Why do I attract all the crazies?,” but I already know the answer. I listen to them, usually with genuine interest. Steve’s gentleness was remarkable, as though with every word and gesture he was caressing some tiny animal. I didn’t know how drunk he was–or if he was drunk at all–or what portion of that lovely affect was his all the time. He was quite handsome, in a wasted way, like a movie star coming off a three day bender. My body still feels the enthusiasm of his embrace. He was a little obsessed with Satan, and at several points said, “I am the opposite of Satan.” I can attest to that, anyway. He was always forming a continuum with his hands in the air, Love on one end, Satan on the other. I told him my place was not quite so far to that side as his, but far enough. His phone number sits on the computer as I write. I’ll be obsessing all day about the right time to call. Steve is from Liverpool, and sometimes he sounded–a little comically–like John Lennon. There is so much archness in the Liverpool accent that it is difficult to tell how serious a person is. I think they use that to their advantage. Steve made me feel I had been welcomed here.
Marcella, returning around midnight, saw a doe and a fawn on the street before St. John’s.
Hiked with the kids to the Fitzwilliam after breakfast. It has a very much better collection than I remembered, with some pieces that are quite spectacular. A work I copied when I was learning to paint was Veneziano’s saint restoring with widow’s son killed by an ox-cart, the dramatic horizontal of the widow’s white swathed head. We had trouble getting in.
“Are you a group?” says the harpy at the door
“Yes,” says I, introducing our little band.
“Well then you can’t come in. Groups must make arrangements at least a week ahead.”
“Well, then we’re seventeen individuals. Seventeen individuals would be OK?”
“Yes, but you came as a group, we’ll have to count you as a group.”
“No you don’t. We’re going in as individuals.”
She called in this burly, scowling guy who shook his head violently at me, which was the gesture by which I determined we WOULD go in come what may.
They explained that they couldn’t have us clumping through the gallery when there were other clumps there, and I explained we wouldn’t clump, but would dissipate till all but invisible, but one perceived the argument was about who was going to get his way. I was. I don’t think they expected outright disobedience. In we went, and neither clumped nor gummed up the works of the august establishment. A British failing has always been to fight to the death over things that were arbitrary from the first.
Evening: Evensong at Kings. I have said before it is one of the unsurpassable pinnacles of human achievement, and I have nothing to say but that again. The motet was Bruckner: a thundering, serpentine perfection.
My children laugh on the darkening lawn. They laugh from the balcony above my head. I want nothing but to laugh with them, or to create a place for their laughter to be undying. Cambridge is all one laughter on this night.
Met Steve at the Pickerel last night. It was Mystical Drunk Night as the night before had been Rowdy Football Fans night. Steve asked my name, and when told him said, “I am writing a book whose main character is named David. He meets seven other men who are also named David.” Turns out that the Davids are the mystical cities of the Apocalypse in the book of Revelation, and that the main David is Ephesus, and when he saw me he was shocked, as he says the description of the angel Ephesus is one “with a golden head and the face of a child,” and he assumed I’d come to start the Apocalypse, and he had been chosen as witness–an event he had already anticipated. I think he was serious, in a way, in the sense of creating a fiction so intriguing to him he decided to live in it. I’d ask, “Why do I attract all the crazies?,” but I already know the answer. I listen to them, usually with genuine interest. Steve’s gentleness was remarkable, as though with every word and gesture he was caressing some tiny animal. I didn’t know how drunk he was–or if he was drunk at all–or what portion of that lovely affect was his all the time. He was quite handsome, in a wasted way, like a movie star coming off a three day bender. My body still feels the enthusiasm of his embrace. He was a little obsessed with Satan, and at several points said, “I am the opposite of Satan.” I can attest to that, anyway. He was always forming a continuum with his hands in the air, Love on one end, Satan on the other. I told him my place was not quite so far to that side as his, but far enough. His phone number sits on the computer as I write. I’ll be obsessing all day about the right time to call. Steve is from Liverpool, and sometimes he sounded–a little comically–like John Lennon. There is so much archness in the Liverpool accent that it is difficult to tell how serious a person is. I think they use that to their advantage. Steve made me feel I had been welcomed here.
Marcella, returning around midnight, saw a doe and a fawn on the street before St. John’s.
Hiked with the kids to the Fitzwilliam after breakfast. It has a very much better collection than I remembered, with some pieces that are quite spectacular. A work I copied when I was learning to paint was Veneziano’s saint restoring with widow’s son killed by an ox-cart, the dramatic horizontal of the widow’s white swathed head. We had trouble getting in.
“Are you a group?” says the harpy at the door
“Yes,” says I, introducing our little band.
“Well then you can’t come in. Groups must make arrangements at least a week ahead.”
“Well, then we’re seventeen individuals. Seventeen individuals would be OK?”
“Yes, but you came as a group, we’ll have to count you as a group.”
“No you don’t. We’re going in as individuals.”
She called in this burly, scowling guy who shook his head violently at me, which was the gesture by which I determined we WOULD go in come what may.
They explained that they couldn’t have us clumping through the gallery when there were other clumps there, and I explained we wouldn’t clump, but would dissipate till all but invisible, but one perceived the argument was about who was going to get his way. I was. I don’t think they expected outright disobedience. In we went, and neither clumped nor gummed up the works of the august establishment. A British failing has always been to fight to the death over things that were arbitrary from the first.
Evening: Evensong at Kings. I have said before it is one of the unsurpassable pinnacles of human achievement, and I have nothing to say but that again. The motet was Bruckner: a thundering, serpentine perfection.
My children laugh on the darkening lawn. They laugh from the balcony above my head. I want nothing but to laugh with them, or to create a place for their laughter to be undying. Cambridge is all one laughter on this night.
Second Cambridge Poem
Since You Asked
Since you asked, I would become this:
a vast falcon-like thing,
with dark pinions, or with bright,
outstretched above the boys in their foxholes,
above the shining-haired girls being beaten
on the street because of their beauty,
between the mothers and the grind of toil
that made them hags before their time.
Hawk-like, owlish, eagle-like, I would cover
as they do the fierce chicks, the little ones,
against the tangle of insignia
that preys in wicked majesty upon the world.
Nor would I feel the need in this
to be particularly forgiving:
a rumor in the night,
a trembling of air between the poles.
I see one bent over, holding with sharp claw,
eating their hearts even as they ate. Let it be me.
I would have them finally written out.
Set me watching in the iron tree.
Since you asked, I would become this:
a vast falcon-like thing,
with dark pinions, or with bright,
outstretched above the boys in their foxholes,
above the shining-haired girls being beaten
on the street because of their beauty,
between the mothers and the grind of toil
that made them hags before their time.
Hawk-like, owlish, eagle-like, I would cover
as they do the fierce chicks, the little ones,
against the tangle of insignia
that preys in wicked majesty upon the world.
Nor would I feel the need in this
to be particularly forgiving:
a rumor in the night,
a trembling of air between the poles.
I see one bent over, holding with sharp claw,
eating their hearts even as they ate. Let it be me.
I would have them finally written out.
Set me watching in the iron tree.
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