September 30, 2015

Over yesterday’s disappointment at the speed of whirlwind. Why, I won’t even ask.

Expected rehearsal last night to be an awful groping for lines, but I was actually pretty good, by far the best of the lot. Dementia? Not yet. Waited for Erin at Earth Fare until the very last moment, told when I got to the theater that she had a family emergency in Atlanta.

Energy this AM. Feel like a boy.

Lovely rain.

September 29, 2015

Immensities of rain. Start, stop, start again harder. It’s like Ireland.

Testimonies from my two boys on how great the playwriting workshop is.

Excellent class (I thought) on Crete, Mycenae, Archaic Greece. God knows what they thought.

Five minutes online reveal that Austin Macauley is primarily a vanity publisher, and when they send me a contract, it will likely be an “author contribution” one. They do real contracts, too, but the fact that this is all hidden, that there is nothing on its website to indicate it is a vanity publisher, raises the creepiness level to near infinity. At least one immediate task is off me; I won’t put In the Country of the Young through a full rewrite for them. Well played, Lord: full points for you. Maybe not full points: I hadn’t fallen for it quite completely– hence the online search. But a great victory nevertheless. Salut.

September 28, 2015

Crashed into bed last night at 9, having already fallen asleep on the couch twice. I need to put a limit on the number and intensity of things I do in a day. Left rehearsal early, the arthritis in my shoulder and upset in my stomach having become unbearable. I thought, “You’re singing. For a stupid concert. There’s nothing in the contract which requires you to be in physical agony.” The man next to me sounded sensational, so my old, vain worry that the basses would be lost without me seemed yet vainer. Went home, took the aspirin, lay down, essentially never got up again. Feel great this AM. Ran 1.25 miles on the elliptical, before dawn, studying my lines.
   
The Bs’ reception went well. All the baked goods, even the experiments, seemed to work, and I’ll blame over-preparation rather than taste for the fact that dozens were left over. The congregation may be eating them after church for the next six weeks. There were probably enough pieces for every person at the event to have ten. The event itself was remarkable– who knew there would be such richness in the repertory for trumpet and organ? Interesting music, layered and contemplative. J sang some of my Baroque favorites. I was happy just sitting and listening. Take-away: sit and listen more.
   
Preparing the manuscript for Austin Macauley. Ocean of typos. I make new ones correcting the old. I’m sometimes a better writer than I remember myself being.
   
Giving up my fight in the Humanities. Not giving up the principle, exactly, but noting that the front has moved, and there I stand alone in an empty field. I was right a year ago. Now– not so much.
   
Glowering sky. I inquired of the garden and it is finally satisfied with regard to the rain, though there still is a way to go before there is too much.

September 27, 2015

Dream of a kind of safari which includes jungles (an inhabitant of one of which was an arrowhead-headed lizard that spoke Italian to me) and a war-zone, where the soldiers stopped and put in special bullets, that went very slowly, so you could get the sensation of bullets coming right toward you with plenty of time to get out of the way.

September 26, 2015

Sang for J’s funeral at All Souls in the morning, for the wedding of two men I didn’t know at First Congregational in the afternoon. Two landmarks in life’s journey. I feel privileged, looking back on it. Much baking, much cramming of lines. The student who got hysterical in my class transferred, as I think she should, though staying with me would have been the greater lesson and the greater triumph. Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd in London is interested in seeing the whole of In the Country of the Young, following on the excerpt I send them. After my little joy dance I tamp it down, realizing how many barriers yet lie ahead. Invent lime drop cookies, having stared for about a week at the juice of eight limes in the fridge. You can make only so many gin and tonics. Make fudge for the first time. Start looking over Young to find it a sea of typos; they were generous in wanting to see more.  Days ahead without one empty space, one deep breath. I must have wanted it--

September 25, 2015

 In the trances of the storm hummingbirds came to my feeders, looking so small against the storm clouds and the glowering line of trees.
   
Bought a wheelbarrow. All my plants were in before the rain. Bless. Bless. Bless.
   
Look across the street and see Will has shrouded 62 in fences. I turn away, saying to myself “A broken heart is too theatrical. Besides, nobody is watching.”
   
Told not to come to Humanities meetings, as my input is not wanted. The fury is tamped down considerably by the shrug.
   
Discover that gout has made all my dress shoes unwearable. Scamper to Steinmart to get a cheap pair that will get me, at least, to the wedding tomorrow.
   
Orgy of baking.
   
Exhausted almost to staggering. Can’t judge exactly why.

September 24, 2015

Before dawn: me running on the elliptical at the Racquet Club, studying lines.
   
Two giant cartons of plants on the porch in the morning. Got them into the ground, anticipating rain. Shade-loving hydrangeas, ferns. Transplanted the meadow rue, that seemed unhappy where it was.
   
Begin a flurry of baking for the Bryants’ reception.
   
Getting ready to drive to Waynesville with the kids, when I realize I’m sick to my stomach and can’t stand up without leaning against a wall. Vertigo, I self-diagnose. Will phones and said, “Do you realize you left your car door open?” I did not. Call and beg out of rehearsal. Things improve through the evening, both the nausea and the vertigo gradually subsiding.
   
I walk out onto the porch and the rain falls, a perfect, root-delighting downpour. I bless the gods, finally.