October 1, 2011

Went to bed early, rose late, when there was a glimmer of silver already in the sky. During that time I had the most amazing dreams. One took place in my recurrent dream factory, the maze-y City of Night inspired by my job at Goodyear in high school. I was part of some kind of superior scavenger hunt. Every now and then an Important Person would appear and give me a new task or a new thing to find in the labyrinth, and I would set out to do it. It was adventure rather than drudgery. Then I was in the old neighborhood on Foxboro. The house next to us was huge, square, made of white marble, and very mysterious. But the young man who lived there beckoned to me, and I went into the house and found a palace. The walls were vast aquaria filled with exotic fish and salamanders and beautiful thing harder to classify. Fountains chattered forth from walls shaped like shells or pearly groves of trees. He led me from room to room, making clear that I was part of his circle now, and all these wonders were available to me whenever I wanted. In the writing, it occurs to me that both these dreams involve a guide or mentor opening new worlds. My life has been singularly mentor-less, so I hope this signals some new era. And all this at the end of a week when I have had a peculiar sense of physical well-being.

And all allowed me better to cope with the cat vomit on the bed.

Kristen’s wedding went off without a hitch on easily the most splendid afternoon of this early autumn. The bride was radiant, the groom was nervous, the bridesmaids were catty and giggly, the groomsmen were affectionate and funny. At the reception I watched and blessed in my heart, thinking that however fumbling humankind is, however retrograde our intentions, there is something in happy, innocent, generous hearted moments such as that which acts as a kind of ratchet, to keep the whole enterprise from falling into night.

September 30, 2011


Students in the UNCA drama department have chosen to do my “I Suppose I Should Tell You I Have a Gun in My Purse” as part of a one-act festival in November. Makes me happy. However overdue . . .

Sonora Review appears with my prize-winning story. You could make a living at this if you kept bagging $1000 contest prizes. And if at least some of them paid you after you’d won . . .

Rehearsal for Kristin and Van’s wedding yesterday out at Forge Valley, on the way to Brevard. Pretty area. One pond full of ducks and one of koi. A gazebo made of gray twisty wood. Kristin’s ceremony is dignified and everyone was having a good time at the rehearsal. Their actual wedding happens in four hours, after Tom Posey’s funeral, for which I am about to sing, having sung at his first wife’s funeral and at his wedding to his second wife.

Glorious day pretty much gobbled up by running from one appointment to another, marking milestone’s in lives other than mine. Tomorrow Cantaria sings for NC Pride; then I read Lear at the NC Stage Bardathon. Casey invited me to play Lear, and I was joyful. Bureaucracy tried to pry me from the project, but I fought back with far more sternness than was necessary.

September 29, 2011

Flamingo/tangerine roses are the first to peek out of the dimness at dawn. Behind them, cyclamen like pink gems tossed casually across the ground. The pale pumpkin angel’s trumpets are festooned with magenta volunteer morning glories. The effect is sublimely bold.

Pulling onto University Heights, I almost hit a motorcycle which was turning–cutting off the corner of my lane–in front of me. I simply had not seen him. My gratitude for the near-miss has lasted through the day.

Schubert on the CD.

September 28, 2011

First run-through last night was not particularly disastrous, especially considering the quite long rehearsal span, and the time we have before us in which to amend.

My time is devoured utterly. I go from one ordained task to another with gap enough only to catch some desperate sleep. It is good only in the sense that I never have to pause and ask myself, “What shall I do?” Otherwise, it is horrible.

September 25, 2011

Afternoon sun, home from Lake Logan. Got my affairs in order and planted peonies and narcissi. Enough time had passed to shake off the disgust of the weekend. People wonder why I hate it so, and I have nothing to say that makes sense, even to me, but the emotion is real, and should, in times to come, be finally heeded. Maybe it just focuses endemic sadness. Did have a walk up the Pigeon River until the going got too rough, and I had turned my ankles on too many football-sized stones. The day and the way were roaringly beautiful. The mountain was a bowl of light, and the purple and pink of autumn flowers blazed along the water. When I reached the end of that adventure I turned the other way and walked the trail that leads up Sunburst Mountain to a gazebo and an overlook. I met the camp director (I suppose it was) who adamantly refused to let me proceed unless I had someone with me (I didn’t, though I expected to meet someone on the trail) or waited for him to fetch me a map. My protestations that I was a fairly experienced hiker met with renewed insistence. I was at the point of simply defying him and walking up the trail, but I didn’t really want to escalate to that, so I waited while he drove somewhere and got me a map. It was not the time to put me through another pointless frustration, and only exhaustion kept me from withering him when he returned with the stupid map, after his having been delayed by a fire alarm. How I hated him. That is the end of my contributions to Lake Logan. I did in fact get lost, and his comments about how to follow the orange markings did in fact get me back on the trail, but I would have righted myself in time, and my disgust was not much abated. Met Russell and Maria and several others as I ascended, as had been my purpose. We walked down the mountain together. Everyone had orange anti-hunter vests but me. I marked that as a victory. My knees are now annihilated. Russell and Maria found a baby snapping turtle and a scarlet salamander. I found nothing. They are blessed and I am not.

On Administration

A disinterested observer might conclude that the central occupation of our university administration has become to thwart, defy, marginalize and humiliate the faculty. Several administrators I overhear, and among them the highest. can barely manage to open their mouths without expressing contempt for the faculty. Every faculty conversation concerning the university carries as a subtext resentment of the administration, and wonder that it can be so wrong so consistently and yet continue down the same path, our good counsel set aside as a kind of weakness. How did it come to this? Faculty let it, is the answer, largely through politeness and collegiality, compromising where no compromise was reciprocated, believing without investigation tales of necessity, allowing people who smiled and promised to become martinets before our eyes. Not all in the administration lean toward the dark side, but if they lean in other ways it seems not to make much difference. The central folly is that those who want to seize the reins are exactly those who have nothing to do legitimately but carry the baggage. The simple fact is that what is necessary to a university are students and faculty. That is the end of it. Groundskeepers and cooks and the like are desirable if there is to be more than a few scholars huddled in a room, as it was in the beginning of universities, but all the rest are add-ons which can be as easily take-aways. Administration in Paradise raises money, pays bills, manages the payroll, and has nothing to say about the actual process of academia. An employee should not be fired, a parking space removed, a policy changed without express faculty approval. Administration is a convenience to and a luxury for faculty and student. When it ceases to be convenient it is merely a luxury, and in these times luxuries, especially obstreperous ones, cannot be afforded. The fount of offense is far away, I grant, Chapel Hill or Raleigh, but one takes aim at the target one can see. Most of the projects the administration–near and far–hands down to us have the deliberate end of making it seem like their oversight and input is actually necessary, and have nothing to do with the actual delivery of curriculum. I wish I too could get paid for inventing and imposing projects which exist solely to justify my salary. Not all those in the lofty offices are dead weight, of course, but too, too many are, especially in this time of dearth. The “top” has become a parasite, sapping the vitality of the whole. I have too many projects on my hands to do anything about this, even if I could think of what to do. I believe we could defeat the beast merely by ignoring it, but it is hard to recruit participants to that action. Too much fear. I feel the fear, but I fear the destruction of the university system (or the transforming of it into a corporate system, which is the same thing) more than I fear the wrath of anyone on it.

September 22, 2011

Rain on and off. Allegri on the CD.

R tells me of his conflicts with the money people over money that is rightly his and which he rightly spent in good faith on the Cambridge program. Their denial is based on intricate rules to which only they, apparently, have access. Justice did not enter into the negotiations.

Unreasonable dread of upcoming weekend at lake Logan. Unreasonable does not mean unreal.

Sick before retiring, moments after discovering a certain oakey Riesling was my favorite wine so far.