May 31, 2011
The first waterlily is deep pink. This is a singular blessedness. Yellow and deep purple hollyhocks. The first blooms of acanthus, after years of trying.
Excellent workout at the Y. My lethargy is cured.
Maybe because of the heat today I thought of something I forgot to mention about the flight home from Italy. Far off the coast of Labrador we saw icebergs, several of them immense. It’s hard to get perspective when something is floating in the middle of the sea, but I would say one was the size of Manhattan. There were many icebergs, and then there was a coast all ice and stone, beautiful, inhospitable.
Florence has become the city of dreams. I don’t think one night this week has gone by without a dream set in it, and today I finished a painting where it is a city seen in dreams. Logan remarked that they survive in the glassblowing workshop only by each having a fan aimed up their pant leg.
As to sin, they invented it, to implement domination.
Ezra Pound
Someone is singing on the street in the giant darkness.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
May 30, 2011
Memorial Day. Sweet summer. Everything in the garden is as tall as I. The scarlet poppies bloom at my nipples. Two wonderful surprises at morning inspection: first, that the expensive Japanese cobra lily did indeed germinate and now puts forth a cup of creamy white; and second, that the angel’s trumpet did reseed itself. There’s a tangle of infants at the rim of the terrace, which I have not yet developed the cold-bloodedness to thin.
Picnic and J & L’s, with the usual suspects. Mild yet inexplicable panic sitting there among durable friends. What was with that? Part of it was M, of whom I was weary unto death, who seemed to have gone away but never quite goes away. Those you love pass through for a season and disappear. Those you endure, endure.
Memorial Day. Sweet summer. Everything in the garden is as tall as I. The scarlet poppies bloom at my nipples. Two wonderful surprises at morning inspection: first, that the expensive Japanese cobra lily did indeed germinate and now puts forth a cup of creamy white; and second, that the angel’s trumpet did reseed itself. There’s a tangle of infants at the rim of the terrace, which I have not yet developed the cold-bloodedness to thin.
Picnic and J & L’s, with the usual suspects. Mild yet inexplicable panic sitting there among durable friends. What was with that? Part of it was M, of whom I was weary unto death, who seemed to have gone away but never quite goes away. Those you love pass through for a season and disappear. Those you endure, endure.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
May 27, 2011
Slow morning rain. This helps me because it narrows the possible activities of the day. It also rejoices my garden, which has entered the phase of giganticism: a huge patch of pale heal-all gobbles the end of the sidewalk; hollyhock and foxglove and, especially, great mullein aim skyward, already taller than me. Mint, mallow, anemone and cobra-lily extend their several empires. Whenever Carolyn has certain guests (her family, I think), they whoop on the walk and shriek “poison!”–by which they indicate poison ivy-- and lament that they will probably come away with cases of it, the leaves having jumped out and engaged them at distance. She in fact has no “poison.” What they are shrieking about is Virginia creeper. Somehow this infuriates me.
The five singing birds on the wires above the front yard is actually one mockingbird, effusing, overflowing.
Senior exit interviews. I’m indicated by name only once, to accuse me of being inflexible and therefore a tribulation to non-traditional students who have work and lives outside of class. Had I been writing my own critique, I would have lamented exactly the opposite, that my standards seem to dissolve before each petition, each excuse. The oddest thing to me is the cry for us to teach them what they could learn better on their own. I was always grateful to have a field of study in which I was the vanguard, and my professors could follow or not, as they pleased.
Two of my paintings will hang at a show Upstairs in Tryon. They are both very strange, and I thought I would win the prize for strangeness, until I saw some of the other included works, farther off the edge and deeper into the abyss than mine.
Ended the day at Steve DeGhelder’s review Prime Ribbing at the new Altamont Theater. I think it may have been inaugural night for the whole enterprise, but it was certainly opening night for the play. It’s a satiric review, genuinely witty and funny and professional all through. S’s encyclopedic knowledge of musical theater gave him the perfect vector every time. The Altamont, which I haven’t seen since it was a gutted shell, turned out elegantly. The theater part is small, but they seem to have found a style (cabaret) which will suit it.
Slow morning rain. This helps me because it narrows the possible activities of the day. It also rejoices my garden, which has entered the phase of giganticism: a huge patch of pale heal-all gobbles the end of the sidewalk; hollyhock and foxglove and, especially, great mullein aim skyward, already taller than me. Mint, mallow, anemone and cobra-lily extend their several empires. Whenever Carolyn has certain guests (her family, I think), they whoop on the walk and shriek “poison!”–by which they indicate poison ivy-- and lament that they will probably come away with cases of it, the leaves having jumped out and engaged them at distance. She in fact has no “poison.” What they are shrieking about is Virginia creeper. Somehow this infuriates me.
The five singing birds on the wires above the front yard is actually one mockingbird, effusing, overflowing.
Senior exit interviews. I’m indicated by name only once, to accuse me of being inflexible and therefore a tribulation to non-traditional students who have work and lives outside of class. Had I been writing my own critique, I would have lamented exactly the opposite, that my standards seem to dissolve before each petition, each excuse. The oddest thing to me is the cry for us to teach them what they could learn better on their own. I was always grateful to have a field of study in which I was the vanguard, and my professors could follow or not, as they pleased.
Two of my paintings will hang at a show Upstairs in Tryon. They are both very strange, and I thought I would win the prize for strangeness, until I saw some of the other included works, farther off the edge and deeper into the abyss than mine.
Ended the day at Steve DeGhelder’s review Prime Ribbing at the new Altamont Theater. I think it may have been inaugural night for the whole enterprise, but it was certainly opening night for the play. It’s a satiric review, genuinely witty and funny and professional all through. S’s encyclopedic knowledge of musical theater gave him the perfect vector every time. The Altamont, which I haven’t seen since it was a gutted shell, turned out elegantly. The theater part is small, but they seem to have found a style (cabaret) which will suit it.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
May 25, 2011
Fine summer day before summer. Acquired a copy of The Correspondence of Robert Bridges and W.B. Yeats edited by Finneran, which includes a photograph of Yeats published in 1904, taken during the hour when he must have been the handsomest man in Ireland.
Attended dress rehearsal of Reynolds High’s Phantom of the Opera. Saw the show twice in New York, and I’m not sure but that the Reynolds version was more pleasing. Unlimited resources do make a difference in a production, but not totally the difference people think. Sometimes they leave you thinking, “with so much money, it should have been perfect.” No one expected perfection at Reynolds, so every approach to it was a happy surprise. The voices and the vocal preparation were terrific. The acting was sometimes high-schoolish but in ways that could have been fixed by a decent director in five minutes. Those with good natural instincts did fine, but those who needed a little coaching were left hanging. Uneven in that sense, but touching, and marvelous good fun. Some breathtaking voices. The second act is a disaster, but that’s the composer’s fault. It’s no better on Broadway, and the reasons for its lameness less honestly apparent. Webber writes pretty songs but gets tired of plot after a few promising scenes, and is totally indifferent to character.
Fine summer day before summer. Acquired a copy of The Correspondence of Robert Bridges and W.B. Yeats edited by Finneran, which includes a photograph of Yeats published in 1904, taken during the hour when he must have been the handsomest man in Ireland.
Attended dress rehearsal of Reynolds High’s Phantom of the Opera. Saw the show twice in New York, and I’m not sure but that the Reynolds version was more pleasing. Unlimited resources do make a difference in a production, but not totally the difference people think. Sometimes they leave you thinking, “with so much money, it should have been perfect.” No one expected perfection at Reynolds, so every approach to it was a happy surprise. The voices and the vocal preparation were terrific. The acting was sometimes high-schoolish but in ways that could have been fixed by a decent director in five minutes. Those with good natural instincts did fine, but those who needed a little coaching were left hanging. Uneven in that sense, but touching, and marvelous good fun. Some breathtaking voices. The second act is a disaster, but that’s the composer’s fault. It’s no better on Broadway, and the reasons for its lameness less honestly apparent. Webber writes pretty songs but gets tired of plot after a few promising scenes, and is totally indifferent to character.
Monday, May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011
Misty dawn and sharp calling of birds over my wet garden. The Florentine adventure is, for the moment, over. Slept badly last night. My internal clock was off, and in an extended, restless dream, it seemed I had six or seven wives and each was trying to conjure us a house in Florence under a different set of magical codes. I was awake at 2. Chatted with MA on Facebook, after he had been working on his novel all the night.
Next days after homecoming are awful. The brain is in the wrong zone, and that final leg of the journey, the hour from Atlanta or Charlotte to here, is given over to blasting the airlines for their multifarious idiocies. May mayhem take Charles de Gaulle. All was in order here upon return. The garden in a week is woodier and bloomier, with the pale foxgloves finally looking like the foxgloves in the Saint John’s gardens. My little jasmine vines bloom low to the ground. I tell them stories of their luxuriant kindred in Florence, to encourage them upward in glory.
DJ had been falling hard and frequently toward the end of the trip. There was always a flock of Samaritans to help him to his feet, but I worried that sometime he would fall and not be able to get up, despite me, despite the kindhearted Florentines. One does not always know what to do nor when to do it. I am not the world’s best caretaker.
The Indian-named guy from AWP congratulates my manuscript on reaching the final judge. The judge wants an electronic copy of Riding Funhouse. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I read half of it this morning before sending. No major errors or problems, but it doesn’t really sound like me. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I meant it not to sound like me, but one analyzes one’s choices into mush. Dos Passos Review wants two stories. An agent whose name I will remind myself of in moments want to see The Falls of the Wyona. Absence was profitable for me this week. Il mia coppa trabocca.
Went to the studio almost as an afterthought, but painted mightily once there. To say that Florence influenced my approach is an understatement.
Misty dawn and sharp calling of birds over my wet garden. The Florentine adventure is, for the moment, over. Slept badly last night. My internal clock was off, and in an extended, restless dream, it seemed I had six or seven wives and each was trying to conjure us a house in Florence under a different set of magical codes. I was awake at 2. Chatted with MA on Facebook, after he had been working on his novel all the night.
Next days after homecoming are awful. The brain is in the wrong zone, and that final leg of the journey, the hour from Atlanta or Charlotte to here, is given over to blasting the airlines for their multifarious idiocies. May mayhem take Charles de Gaulle. All was in order here upon return. The garden in a week is woodier and bloomier, with the pale foxgloves finally looking like the foxgloves in the Saint John’s gardens. My little jasmine vines bloom low to the ground. I tell them stories of their luxuriant kindred in Florence, to encourage them upward in glory.
DJ had been falling hard and frequently toward the end of the trip. There was always a flock of Samaritans to help him to his feet, but I worried that sometime he would fall and not be able to get up, despite me, despite the kindhearted Florentines. One does not always know what to do nor when to do it. I am not the world’s best caretaker.
The Indian-named guy from AWP congratulates my manuscript on reaching the final judge. The judge wants an electronic copy of Riding Funhouse. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I read half of it this morning before sending. No major errors or problems, but it doesn’t really sound like me. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I meant it not to sound like me, but one analyzes one’s choices into mush. Dos Passos Review wants two stories. An agent whose name I will remind myself of in moments want to see The Falls of the Wyona. Absence was profitable for me this week. Il mia coppa trabocca.
Went to the studio almost as an afterthought, but painted mightily once there. To say that Florence influenced my approach is an understatement.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Florence 5
May 21, 2011
The days continue blazing azzura, a Tuscan summer arrived early and in full glory. This morning it was the Brancacci Chapel. It is hard to know under what conditions what makes such judgments, but the Massacchio frescoes were as revolutionary as the David, fully recognizable in their humanity, luminous and present despite time and ruin. They do not have, or need, the defiance of the David. Their maker was as brilliant as and more at peace than was Michelangelo. The beautiful film they made about the chapel and its artists suggests that Massacchio was notoriously indifferent to worldly things. Perhaps that was the difference. Four towering cypresses in the Brancacci courtyard. Sparrows nibble away at the sample gelato cones in the café where we had our coffee.
The rest of the day we lolled about in the sunlight, drinking too much and seeing what passed in front of us. Last night I bought an Italian The Hobbit and there was music and dancing on the Piazza de Republica. DJ has done research, and is able to tell me who did what panel in which fresco, and the history of that church we are too tired to cross over and look at directly. Both Rome and Florence turn out to be far more intimate and lived-in than one expects them, from the history books, to be.
Evening into night: we sat in the Piazza de Santa Croce and watched the passing show, which included a couple of hundred people arranged in red, white, and green tT-shirts (representing the Italian flag) reciting chorally some long piece in Italian. The patriotic show was punctuated by gangs of bridesmaids leading their brides in merry humiliation through the streets. Herons flew above the swirling clouds of swallows, making their way up river for the night.
The days continue blazing azzura, a Tuscan summer arrived early and in full glory. This morning it was the Brancacci Chapel. It is hard to know under what conditions what makes such judgments, but the Massacchio frescoes were as revolutionary as the David, fully recognizable in their humanity, luminous and present despite time and ruin. They do not have, or need, the defiance of the David. Their maker was as brilliant as and more at peace than was Michelangelo. The beautiful film they made about the chapel and its artists suggests that Massacchio was notoriously indifferent to worldly things. Perhaps that was the difference. Four towering cypresses in the Brancacci courtyard. Sparrows nibble away at the sample gelato cones in the café where we had our coffee.
The rest of the day we lolled about in the sunlight, drinking too much and seeing what passed in front of us. Last night I bought an Italian The Hobbit and there was music and dancing on the Piazza de Republica. DJ has done research, and is able to tell me who did what panel in which fresco, and the history of that church we are too tired to cross over and look at directly. Both Rome and Florence turn out to be far more intimate and lived-in than one expects them, from the history books, to be.
Evening into night: we sat in the Piazza de Santa Croce and watched the passing show, which included a couple of hundred people arranged in red, white, and green tT-shirts (representing the Italian flag) reciting chorally some long piece in Italian. The patriotic show was punctuated by gangs of bridesmaids leading their brides in merry humiliation through the streets. Herons flew above the swirling clouds of swallows, making their way up river for the night.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Florence 4
May 20, 2011
The one sure thing is that I will have to return to Florence to know exactly what it is I’m seeing. It passes by like a walk down the library aisle, fingers trailing longingly over the unreadable books. Today it was the Pitti Palace, with (I think) the hugest collection yet, a maelstrom, a cloudburst, a glut, a treasure chest of which, if there is a bottom, it was not delved by me. The Medici lived like no one in the world never has. Boboli Gardens afterwards, though DJ’s immobility limited our travels there. The Boboli was Paradiso degli uccelli, the bright beings flitting and singing in the emerald dapple. You could see them when they left the trees and came down to drink at the fountains. If I had awakened in the Boboli, I would have known it was not the US, from the strange callings of the birds, more complex, somehow, than the forests of Carolina, if only because less familiar.. We lunched at the Pitti café, where a bold sparrow ate from our fingers.
Email informed me that Riding Funhouse is a finalist in the AWP competition. The joy of even that still-distant happenstance made the day light for me, made every outcome acceptable.
One really doesn’t need to enter a museum, such is the beauty of the Italians themselves.
Tremendous blast on thunder on the street late in the afternoon. Jove is so evident on the walls and pedestals that I was able to think for a moment it was really he.
La pazzia dei grandi non va lasciata incustodita
The one sure thing is that I will have to return to Florence to know exactly what it is I’m seeing. It passes by like a walk down the library aisle, fingers trailing longingly over the unreadable books. Today it was the Pitti Palace, with (I think) the hugest collection yet, a maelstrom, a cloudburst, a glut, a treasure chest of which, if there is a bottom, it was not delved by me. The Medici lived like no one in the world never has. Boboli Gardens afterwards, though DJ’s immobility limited our travels there. The Boboli was Paradiso degli uccelli, the bright beings flitting and singing in the emerald dapple. You could see them when they left the trees and came down to drink at the fountains. If I had awakened in the Boboli, I would have known it was not the US, from the strange callings of the birds, more complex, somehow, than the forests of Carolina, if only because less familiar.. We lunched at the Pitti café, where a bold sparrow ate from our fingers.
Email informed me that Riding Funhouse is a finalist in the AWP competition. The joy of even that still-distant happenstance made the day light for me, made every outcome acceptable.
One really doesn’t need to enter a museum, such is the beauty of the Italians themselves.
Tremendous blast on thunder on the street late in the afternoon. Jove is so evident on the walls and pedestals that I was able to think for a moment it was really he.
La pazzia dei grandi non va lasciata incustodita
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