Friday, January 30, 2015

January 30, 2015

Woke grumpy. Tired of coughing, of the stuffy head, of the bad dragging on and the imagined good delaying. Plenty to do in the small hours of the morning, little will, today, to do it. Early morning BBC droning on about fridges in India.
   
Spoke too soon, tired of Neil Gaiman.
   
Go back to bed and start again?

Thursday, January 29, 2015


January 29, 2015

Going on a liquid fast to address multiple digestive problems, Give the system time to reboot.

Trembling day after day with a kind of controllable mania.

Reading Neil Gaiman, one of the few contemporary fiction writers I can read for pleasure, it turns out.

S visits once since the New Year. Everything he does is clean and right. To leave then behind and move forward into now is clean and right.

My sister writes that when my uncle was dying he woke up and said, “I saw Marion.” Sobbed for a time.

The yard is a speckle of pale purple crocus, the first fruits of my fall plantings.

Let me find the treasure that is hidden.

Let me go in dark places unharmed.

   

Wednesday, January 28, 2015


January 28, 2015

Bitter cold, hard stars low in the sky. I was on my way to the gym but the bitterness turned me back. Later.

Instant coffee with evaporated milk, what I had for my mornings all through graduate school. I liked it. Why did I abandon it?

Class on The Duchess of Malfi, that cruel, brilliant diamond of a play. On that day I thought it was the single greatest play ever written, and the class agreed with me. I had them wrong on the first day. They are engaged 95%. One boy pounded his desk and thanked me for saying things like, “This is the greatest thing in the world.” I’m a better teacher now than ever before. I have not yet thought of retirement. When do I get tired and forgetful?

   

Tuesday, January 27, 2015


January 27, 2015

Sidney posts photos of Broadway and 85th buried under snow. Dark and dry here, though plenty cold enough.

Woke an hour into sleep with tremendous cramps, leg and chest. Crashed through the house like a screaming cripple, unable to stand up, unable to breathe properly, trying to get to a water source. Then it was over. I react to hiccoughs and cramps with blind rage, thinking of them as wholly gratuitous. But I don’t listen to my body, to know if it is thirsty or tired.

Thoughts would not come into my head yesterday.

Judging new plays and productions for AABF. One of our number likes anything that’s by or about women, regardless of actual quality. At the last meeting she suggested that our contest be open only to women, and not to men. I said. “No.” Later on she asked me, with what I thought was sincerity, “why?” She’s maybe just anxious that women get their fair share, with “fair share” having nothing to do with present achievement. If we get a hundred submissions from men and thirty from women– though we specifically solicit on women’s and lesbians’ noticeboards–she assumes it’s because we’ve discriminated in some ultra-subtle way. It never crosses her mind that but thirty women felt like submitting. If we have ten prizes to give, six should be to women, five because they’re half the race, the extra one to make up for evil treatment throughout the centuries.

Monday, January 26, 2015


January 26, 2015

Complete rewrite of See Where Capella with Her Golden Kids. Someone might actually want to do it now. I opened it looking for something else, but clearly its moment had come.

Taking care of DJ’s fish I returned to 62. Will has replaced gutters and downspouts that I never replaced, dug trenches that I neglected to dig. His having the house it better. I think it is happier with a family in it. This house likes me as that one never did. I came to it in too bad a time, and our relationship never recovered.

Panic at receiving a new schedule for Amadeus. The old schedule was so wonderfully without conflicts that I should have suspected it from the first. The new is– undoable, but the stage manager says it’s not a problem and it will all work out. I say praise.

Monday morning with hours yet before I need to be at school. Again, praise.

Saturday, January 24, 2015


January 24, 2015

Strode out on the porch at 4 AM. The water was dripping and splashing in the downspouts like living things.

My time with Z was the highlight of Friday. I did practically nothing else, now that I think of it. The awful shadow of futility kept me from working, though it seems to have lifted this morning, so here I am. The things I hoped for have not come. The things I dreaded have not come.

Chit chat among my long-ago classmates reminded me that Pretty Boy Floyd had a hideout on the corner of Crystal and Income, which I passed every day of sixth grade. Very cool. He was arrested in Akron for killing a policeman. This was years before I was born, but the glamor lingered.

Friday, January 23, 2015


January 23, 2015

Winter rain.

Dream that I had discovered some descendants of Caesar, and was trying to be their agent, thinking they must have great potential for leadership. Others were trying to kill them and so we kept having to escape in a subway train without side panels. One woman in particular, who always dressed in purple, seemed to possess great potential, as a spy or as an opera singer.

Woke in the middle of this because Circe clawed my arm; I startled her somehow and she was curled against me and launched away in a panic, back claws slashing. I heard myself, half-asleep, bellowing in rage and sadness. I’d seldom felt such betrayal. Remembered it when the scratch stung again in the shower.

Discussion of “The Rape of the Lock.” I was presenting it as a mock-heroic deflating the pettiness of the leisure class, when one serious young woman raised her hand and said she hated Pope and the poem because Belinda had been objectified and violated and nobody was taking her outrage seriously. I’d never considered such a reading, and now that I have, I don’t know what response to give. How to say, “You’re exactly the sort of person that this poem ridicules”? I can’t say that, partially because I don’t think my student is wrong, exactly; rather that she illustrates the urge to make a moment judgmental and tragic, whereas Pope illustrates the urge to make it forgiving and comic, and individuals who lie at the extremes of that division will probably never understand one another. I don’t know what to say to a person who insists that everyone regard her emotions with the same sanctity and tone as she does herself. How can you insist that one laugh at–or even tolerate laughter at-- what she holds sacred? I have never been good at accepting “because that’s the way I feel” as justification for an action or a viewpoint. I have certainly never used, “because that’s the way I feel” in an argument. I would laugh myself out of the room. But is this a male or an Ohio or a personal prejudice? It does keep things from hanging up on un-investigated, too-sacred-to-discuss  personal convictions every two seconds.

Feeling better every day. Two nights now without medication.