October 1, 2010
I was right about Waterloo Bridge making me feel better. I crossed it heading to the Cottesloe to see a new play called Why Don’t You Just Kiss Me? Like War Horse, it is a piece done with marvelous puppets manipulated by men in black, who are not invisible, but whose expressions are so concentrated on their work that yours is too, WDYJKM is in one sense not a very good play– the professional theater worker in me was fussing about its scripting problems near the beginning– but that magic which sometimes attends upon the stage was afoot, and by the end of the evening I’d had one of the outstanding theatrical experiences of my life. I fought off sobs at the end, until I could get out into the anonymous night. Re-crossing the bridge walking back to Russell Square, I realized that I’d had one of those experiences Aristotle talks about, which people think is just high-toned blather until they have one for themselves. I had transcended pity and terror. Catharsis wrapped me in his arms like a warm wind. The play is about ageing and death, and since my last birthday those have been on my mind. In the middle of the play I felt something I have never felt before. It is hard to put into words. I felt the actual power in me to take whatever desperate or transcendent steps are necessary to stave off what I fear and dread. I thought of the water under the bridge, and it seemed no longer cold and dark, but a radiant plenum, an open door teeming with life. People talk about taking these matters into their own hands– I talk about it–but the actual power to do so descended upon me only that night. With the power to do it comes the end of the obsession with it, and one can get on to the next stage of life with a free mind and an open heart.
Drinks in the hotel bar that night, surrounded by shockingly handsome American men, in the middle of their years, businessmen in loosened ties and expensive suits, with that air about them of men who have always been big and handsome, and assumed their words would be attended.
The Victoria and Albert in morning rain. I took a cab, and the friendly cabbie agreed to take me to Gatwick on Wednesday, and as I had got an internet connection long enough to contact Steven, anxieties were falling like nine pins. I hadn’t remembered the V&A being so gorgeous, all shining dully with cream and gold, full of delightful objects. I must have gone through the wrong entrance before. It has the best café, too, and I drank my jasmine tea and watched the Italian kids and their teacher take pictures of each other. Spencer the cabbie grew up in East London, and has never seen a stage play. I told him he should see Hamlet at the National tonight and get a good start, but he said the Missus wouldn’t stand for anything beyond the level of Sex in the City. I didn’t go into it, but Elsinore makes them look like schoolgirls. Met Simon from Melbourne at the White Horse, somewhere between Leicester Square and Covent Garden. I told him I would come back to see him today, but I am not at all sure I can find the way.
Last night it was the Royal Opera at Covent Garden, Niobe Regina Di Tebe by Agostino Steffani. The music was standard Baroque opera, and the libretto was, of course, idiotic, but the production was lavish and innovative, the singing excellent. The show was boring and delightful at once, as those things sometimes are. The boring part I got past by falling asleep and running a completely different opera in my mind to the music provided. All the male romantic figures were countertenor sopranos, Mars was a woman, and everybody wore poufy full skirts, so one gave up trying to establish any gender norms. I was in the fiftieth balcony, up against the roof. The two people behind me had taken their mother out for a night at the opera, and their ceaseless fussing about whether she could hear and did she see the superscripts and was this and that all right must have ruined any enjoyment she might otherwise have had. At the V&A I was in the tea line behind a gaggle of old ladies who- I swear–took two full minutes each trying to get out of the way so the other could be first in line. I wished I had a camera.
I can go out on my balcony and look down on the Square and whatever street it is runs in front of the hotel. Sore and stiff, but not too sore and stiff.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
London 1
September 30, 2010
Hotel Russell, London. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t sleep on the flight, but played trivia on the viewing screen with other passengers, known by seat numbers and nicknames, and kept playing because I kept winning by thousands of points every round.
I keep coming back to this hotel because of its Victorian splendor, but in many ways it’s primitive and inconvenient, no water pressure, ludicrously complex plumbing, no WiFi in the rooms. It’s a lot to pay for ambience, a cozy bar, and the beautiful park across the street. Everything between landing at 7 AM and now was pretty grueling. The lines at British customs must be to some end, but it’s hard to see what, that cannot be better served in some other way. Trains and the underground to Kings Cross, then the walk to Russell Square. About half way here I felt the smile begin to creep over my face, joyful to walk again on the streets of London, but by the time the before-check-in exile had ended, the smile had gone away. I phoned the Barkley’s Card people to tell them I would be here, but still, on the very first use, they shut down my card. Drinks at the Cambridge, a tour through Soho, a couple of hours at the British Museum. I head to the National Theater tonight. Let’s see if that puts us back on an even keel.
London, unlike New York, is a place where I would be happy to live. Every time I sit down for a coffee or a rest I wonder, “What if this were my usual spot, and everybody knew me?”
A bright clear day is clouding over. I’m frantic about the difficulties of reaching Steve–most of them unnecessary and therefore provoking. I think that’s the root of my present bad mood. I’ll walk across Waterloo Bridge and all will be well,
Hotel Russell, London. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t sleep on the flight, but played trivia on the viewing screen with other passengers, known by seat numbers and nicknames, and kept playing because I kept winning by thousands of points every round.
I keep coming back to this hotel because of its Victorian splendor, but in many ways it’s primitive and inconvenient, no water pressure, ludicrously complex plumbing, no WiFi in the rooms. It’s a lot to pay for ambience, a cozy bar, and the beautiful park across the street. Everything between landing at 7 AM and now was pretty grueling. The lines at British customs must be to some end, but it’s hard to see what, that cannot be better served in some other way. Trains and the underground to Kings Cross, then the walk to Russell Square. About half way here I felt the smile begin to creep over my face, joyful to walk again on the streets of London, but by the time the before-check-in exile had ended, the smile had gone away. I phoned the Barkley’s Card people to tell them I would be here, but still, on the very first use, they shut down my card. Drinks at the Cambridge, a tour through Soho, a couple of hours at the British Museum. I head to the National Theater tonight. Let’s see if that puts us back on an even keel.
London, unlike New York, is a place where I would be happy to live. Every time I sit down for a coffee or a rest I wonder, “What if this were my usual spot, and everybody knew me?”
A bright clear day is clouding over. I’m frantic about the difficulties of reaching Steve–most of them unnecessary and therefore provoking. I think that’s the root of my present bad mood. I’ll walk across Waterloo Bridge and all will be well,
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
September 28, 2010
The smoky purple asters are tall as I, the swamp hibiscus quite a bit taller. Spider fed and balled herself up under the porch roof to digest and keep out of the way of hungry birds.
Tried to paint, but my studio was flooded, so I came home and dug around in the garden. Weeds came up easy after the rain. Pulled out a running Virginia creeper root twelve feet long and thick as my thumb. The ground groaned with relief when it came out.
Off to Marion in a few minutes to lecture at the McDowell County Library on Hasidism and the Jewish novel, in preparation for a discussion on Chaim Potok. Preparation didn’t involve much scholarship, but it involved some, and each time I do scholarly research, however minimal, I remember that I liked it, and was good at it, and marvel that I let it go almost completely to the wayside. I’ll keep it for some unforeseeable season of calm in the future.
The smoky purple asters are tall as I, the swamp hibiscus quite a bit taller. Spider fed and balled herself up under the porch roof to digest and keep out of the way of hungry birds.
Tried to paint, but my studio was flooded, so I came home and dug around in the garden. Weeds came up easy after the rain. Pulled out a running Virginia creeper root twelve feet long and thick as my thumb. The ground groaned with relief when it came out.
Off to Marion in a few minutes to lecture at the McDowell County Library on Hasidism and the Jewish novel, in preparation for a discussion on Chaim Potok. Preparation didn’t involve much scholarship, but it involved some, and each time I do scholarly research, however minimal, I remember that I liked it, and was good at it, and marvel that I let it go almost completely to the wayside. I’ll keep it for some unforeseeable season of calm in the future.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
September 27, 2010
What did I do yesterday? Wrote, wrote, wrote. Wrote nothing today, to balance the forces a little. Did finish up with the mortgage refinancing, which will benefit me in all sorts of astonishing ways. Why did I take so long? Because I never think what works for others will work for me. The value estimate on the property is wonderfully fanciful. Autumnal day, some rain, evening light now domed with spectacular clouds. Refilled the hummingbird feeders for the last time this year, to stoke them on their way to the rainforests. Transplanted acanthus into the light just in time for the rain to fall upon them. In my latest book I am writing the history of Asheville, as it would have been had we all been who we were supposed to be. Blessing my spider when I see her against the light.
What did I do yesterday? Wrote, wrote, wrote. Wrote nothing today, to balance the forces a little. Did finish up with the mortgage refinancing, which will benefit me in all sorts of astonishing ways. Why did I take so long? Because I never think what works for others will work for me. The value estimate on the property is wonderfully fanciful. Autumnal day, some rain, evening light now domed with spectacular clouds. Refilled the hummingbird feeders for the last time this year, to stoke them on their way to the rainforests. Transplanted acanthus into the light just in time for the rain to fall upon them. In my latest book I am writing the history of Asheville, as it would have been had we all been who we were supposed to be. Blessing my spider when I see her against the light.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
September 25, 2010
Rain, not generous, but sufficient, as much as I would have sprayed on with a hose, anyway, and more generally distributed.
Trying to get ready for my trip, the effort multiplied by the fact that Matthew will be here remodeling the bathroom while I’m gone. I cleaned out the bathroom cabinets so they could be moved out of the way, and found a jar of Noxzema from when I lived in Syracuse. It had separated into a pool of white liquid lying amid rounded white mountains. Cold cream from the same time (I was doing a lot of theater) was dry and cracked as a white desert. Found a vial of musk scent I bought in New Orleans in 1981. Kept it: still potent. The shelves were lined with newspaper from May 3, 1992. I will have students in the spring younger than my former shelf paper.
Rose when the sky was just paling and stood on the porch. A big spider was weaving, seemingly midair, suspended from the porch roof, only her silhouette visible. She was graceful, purposeful, concentrated on a complicated task I couldn’t do given a year of tries. The Lord blessed her again and again in the skill of her movements. I saw her again a few minutes ago. She’s big, fat, her two back legs striped black and muddy yellow, her six front legs striped red and black. I sense something from her, a presence, an intention unlike my own, but not fully unintelligible.
Strange revelation in the midst of the day: God created man to be His teachers. Our duty is not to obey God, but to teach him. We are the one mind in the world not His own, and He watches us, listens to us, to find out what He has done.
Rain, not generous, but sufficient, as much as I would have sprayed on with a hose, anyway, and more generally distributed.
Trying to get ready for my trip, the effort multiplied by the fact that Matthew will be here remodeling the bathroom while I’m gone. I cleaned out the bathroom cabinets so they could be moved out of the way, and found a jar of Noxzema from when I lived in Syracuse. It had separated into a pool of white liquid lying amid rounded white mountains. Cold cream from the same time (I was doing a lot of theater) was dry and cracked as a white desert. Found a vial of musk scent I bought in New Orleans in 1981. Kept it: still potent. The shelves were lined with newspaper from May 3, 1992. I will have students in the spring younger than my former shelf paper.
Rose when the sky was just paling and stood on the porch. A big spider was weaving, seemingly midair, suspended from the porch roof, only her silhouette visible. She was graceful, purposeful, concentrated on a complicated task I couldn’t do given a year of tries. The Lord blessed her again and again in the skill of her movements. I saw her again a few minutes ago. She’s big, fat, her two back legs striped black and muddy yellow, her six front legs striped red and black. I sense something from her, a presence, an intention unlike my own, but not fully unintelligible.
Strange revelation in the midst of the day: God created man to be His teachers. Our duty is not to obey God, but to teach him. We are the one mind in the world not His own, and He watches us, listens to us, to find out what He has done.
September 24, 2010
Preparing Potok’s The Chosen for a lecture at the public library in Marion. At one point Reuven’s father says that every man has two duties, to find a teacher and to find a friend, and the definition of friends is one soul in two bodies. I have fulfilled neither duty. One is my fault, the other isn’t.
Watched Wyler’s The Heiress with Olivia de Haviland, Ralph Richardson, and Montgomery Clift. Great movie– smart script, brilliant, natural performances. Clift is so beautiful you know the film wanted to go on fire around him. The person Richmond looks like that I could never quite think of is Montgomery Clift. I was thinking, though, if money is what one has to offer, what’s wrong with being desired for it? It’s longer lasting than beauty, and I don’t see how it is any more superficial than wit or charm. What does it mean to be loved “for yourself alone”? How many people would love whom they love if their appearance were entirely different? The lucky few love soul to soul, but the rest of us are attracted to some particular thing, and the attraction would be different if that thing were different. How is marrying for money worse than marrying for any number of other imperfect reasons? I do see the difference, though, now that I’ve talked myself into it: it is possible to love the money and not the person, though I suppose not possible to love the beauty or the wit and not the person possessing it. Everyone in the film, in Washington Square, in most of James’s work is pretty ghastly on a moral level. How can one trust someone who expects so little?
All conversations about love are pure speculation.
Preparing Potok’s The Chosen for a lecture at the public library in Marion. At one point Reuven’s father says that every man has two duties, to find a teacher and to find a friend, and the definition of friends is one soul in two bodies. I have fulfilled neither duty. One is my fault, the other isn’t.
Watched Wyler’s The Heiress with Olivia de Haviland, Ralph Richardson, and Montgomery Clift. Great movie– smart script, brilliant, natural performances. Clift is so beautiful you know the film wanted to go on fire around him. The person Richmond looks like that I could never quite think of is Montgomery Clift. I was thinking, though, if money is what one has to offer, what’s wrong with being desired for it? It’s longer lasting than beauty, and I don’t see how it is any more superficial than wit or charm. What does it mean to be loved “for yourself alone”? How many people would love whom they love if their appearance were entirely different? The lucky few love soul to soul, but the rest of us are attracted to some particular thing, and the attraction would be different if that thing were different. How is marrying for money worse than marrying for any number of other imperfect reasons? I do see the difference, though, now that I’ve talked myself into it: it is possible to love the money and not the person, though I suppose not possible to love the beauty or the wit and not the person possessing it. Everyone in the film, in Washington Square, in most of James’s work is pretty ghastly on a moral level. How can one trust someone who expects so little?
All conversations about love are pure speculation.
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