August 31, 2018

Illicitly took the day off at the end of the first two weeks of class. My excuse is to have free days around my birthday, if anybody asks, which they have not. Went to High 5 to kick-start one or the other of the novels. Did manage to move Sam-sam along, all the while fighting urgent, copious, inexplicable, and repetitive diarrhea, which eventually put an end to the morning’s writing. All’s well. Sat beside a man and his Jack Russell, who were beautiful together.

Return to the Asheville Gay Men’s Chorus, nee Cantaria, after a summer off. Was in despair the first few moments– the same pop tunes which I hated before, the same turbulent and self-indulgent individualism on the part of the choristers, with our well-established personalities. But, my spirits turned a corner, realizing that I could lament and fade away or I could manage to have fun, if I really put my mind to it. So, we’ll have fun. C has dementia, and comes to rehearsal anyway. What do I think of that? What’s the line between patience and ruinous indulgence? Not my call, thank God. A beautiful, young, and giant baritone gives me something to look at. Amazing what difference that makes.

I said to Circe curled up on the kitchen chair, “I’ve taken care of you for fifteen years, and do you send me a birthday card?”

I said to Maud curled up on the bathroom counter, “I’ve taken care of you for fifteen years, and do you send me a birthday card?”

I said to the frogs on the pond, “I made a world for you, and do you send me a birthday card?”

No sufficient answer from any.

I do receive a letter from Grey, which before the end has me weeping silently in the café in relief and gratitude, for his testimony that I did some good at one time. “I think I’m going to miss your literature classes more than I realized. They were truly one of a kind. I truly feel that you, along with the Western canon  which you wielded, saved me from self-induced drowning.” He’s at the MFA program at Alabama, which is not living up to his expectations, but which seems exactly to mirror my remembrance of the MA at Syracuse. He remembers when I said, “A false argument shrinks the world; a true argument enlarges it.” I am glad now to be reminded of that. He says, “I hope you find your lone, annual devotee.” To be fair, sometimes there are more than one.

Agonizing leg cramps last night, still sore this morning. Hurled invective at God between gulps of Gatorade.

August 30, 2018

Grievance Committee meeting. Luckily nobody has had a grievance (which came to us) in several years, so we mostly sat around warning each other against revealing emails and communications. Big Sam my veteran explains that he has had a headache for three years. My feminists in the back row harden their countenances against Donne’s “Song.” I wonder if they forgave him thereafter, or if one trespass is damnation? I wonder what the term “misogynist” applied to a man of the 17th Century could actually mean?

August 29, 2018

Little birthday gathering after choir, drinks and silly gifts from the bartenders.

August 28, 2018

I will bow and be simple; I will bow and be free; I will bow and be humble, yea bow like the willow tree.

August 27, 2018

Gentle Face Book exchange with Angie and Terry and some of my high school friends about Trump. Nobly, I neither fought nor lectured, but assured them I had noted their perspectives and hoped it would be well for all of us one day. But it is hard confronting a stand that is all assertion and no fact without saying so. Angie says it’s a shame that Trump hasn’t been left alone to do the important work of the people, that he has been thwarted at every turn. I want to point out that the Presidential decrees–things he can do and did do without input from everybody–have been uniformly disastrous. Would he suddenly veer to virtue of the whole world did his bidding? Terry says “somebody” must lead America in the “right direction,” and I want to ask “what is the right direction,” but I am afraid of what I may hear. You want to be gentle. . . you want to be reasonable. . . especially with old folks set in their ways. I remember when Angie was a doe, arguably the prettiest girl in the class. Yeats wrote about this all the time. . . “an intellectual hatred is the worst/so let her think all opinion is accursed.”

Evening spent listening to shape note singing and working on Jason.

August 26, 2018

Summer Sunday. Returned to church, sang Brahms and Tallis. It was the first Sunday DJ could not climb the steps into church. One doesn’t know what to say. Should some transitions be met with silent support? Maybe the right words or the right deeds will be given to me.

Me at the café: I’d like an everything bagel with cream cheese, and a black tea lemonade with no added sugar.
Her: What kind of bagel?
Me: Everything.
Her: Would you like cream cheese?
Me: Yes.
Her: Anything to drink?
Me: Black tea lemonade with no added sugar.
Her: Would you like green or black tea?
Me: Black.
Her: Would you like that sweetened?

August 25, 2018

Rose and went to the studio and had one of the best days ever, certainly in terms of actual square inches of canvas covered. Also, in terms of perceptual breakthroughs and technical confidence.

Lay down on the couch and slept and dreamed of long walks through a wintery landscape, meeting adventures at the meetings of lonely roads.

On the 23rd I looked back through my journals to see what I was doing on the 23rd of August 5 years ago, ten years ago, and on. Interesting. Some names which were important to me have completely lost their faces and contexts. Even more distressing is that the things that were one step out of reach then continue to be one step out of reach. The final entry into human intimacy or a steady literary career has always been denied, no matter how close I’ve come, no matter how often. It is past time for any change in this to make a real change in my life.