May 20, 2008


Two things I did not say about New York:

1) Boots and Saddles is gone.

2) What of the far-famed sophistication and jadedness of New Yorkers? I find in them a kind of innocence, a kind of openness that we have too much private space to need. I sat in the movie Prince Caspian and listened to full-grown New Yorkers gasp at tragic moments and applaud at triumphant ones. I loved them for that.

The one surviving goldfish could not eat enough larvae to quell the mosquito infestation in the 3rd water garden. So, instead of buying more, I went to the pond south of Beaver Lake with my bucket and net and fished for minnows. Brought back a shoal of five good-sized minnows, a couple of fry, a water-strider, a water beetle or two, and a larval something, maybe a dragonfly, to establish a wild ecosystem. I was once again me forty years ago, a kid bent to the wild water, standing so to block the glare of summer sun, watching the life in the moving crystal a few inches from the tip of my nose. I also noted that in twenty four hours I had stood on Times Square and fished with a bucket and a little net in a muddy pond in Appalachia.

Farewell New York

May 19, 2008

Just afternoon. I am in Asheville, the garden checked, the cats greeted. All is most well. The garden is ablaze with roses and poppies, and voodoo lilies which do not even stink. The woman I waited for the shuttle bus with has a daughter, Layla, who dances with American Ballet Theater.
I had developed the rhythm of walking the streets and touring museums from early in the morning, coming back to the room to rest, and write, and nap, maybe eat a little before heading out to the theater. It was a good rhythm, and I’d like to maintain it here, even if there is no material to put into the slots. Production e-mails begin to talk about the strike on Saturday night, which is dolorous conversation indeed.

New York Continued

May 18, 2008

Calm Sunday morning. Many cabs down there on the street, but apparently no people to ride in them.

Edward the King’s Saturday night was by far the best performance yet. Everyone was alive on the stage, listening to one another, following new leads dealt out by their colleagues. Some magic came upon the moment and I was able to watch as if I’d never seen it before, as if I hadn’t written the play but only come to it on a whim. I thought it was magical. I thought it was surprising and thrilling and funny, and of a sort of dark crimson, the color in the mind before Marlowe and Webster. I felt the play had chosen its company and lived up to them, and I was content. I thought, too, that exactly this might be the reward of it all, knowing I had created something nearly perfect, and to have seen it presented nearly perfectly before one’s eyes. It was like holding up a great jewel and peering in and seeing all the little jewels inside that are the record of its making and the pattern of its aspiration. I smiled my face in half, and for the moment thought, "this is enough."

Of course, in the pale blue of morning, it is not enough. I want Edward to go to Broadway. I want everyone on the planet to see it and, having seen it, ache for the next Hopes play. If I knew how to make this happen I would be out doing it. If I knew how to make this happen without appearing to be as self-promoting as I would probably have to be. I can, of course, be a jackass, but I don’t like it. Bruce and Jack are on my side, and others whom I met and did not meet. Some who are not on my side are on the play’s side, or Sidney’s, or Meg’s, or Brian’s. I want to bring everyone with me. I want to make Bruce and Jack rich and my cast famous, and I stand looking out the hotel window as though sudden firesigns on the side of Port Authority will show me the way. There were reviewers with their little pads, scratching away. Where will these reviews appear? What will happen in the week I’m away? It’ll will probably all happen then, when I’m absent, to keep me from messing things up in the way you have when things are too important to you.

Meg and Chad and I went to the Tic Toc afterward, and were joined by Adam and Stephen, who had just seen Young Frankenstein up the street. I wanted them to give Adam a boost in his career, some advice to straighten the path. What they said, and what I later read in a Backstage magazine I picked up in the foyer, made me think that professional acting must be the most demanding, grueling, unfair, exhausting trade in the world. Of course, exhilarating when everything is right. When I considered it long ago it may have been simpler, but still I set it aside easily enough, and have not regretted it since.

Walking back to our hotels up 8th Avenue, we heard someone behind us shouting, "Adam!" Adam had dropped his wallet, and a couple behind had scooped it up and run after to return it. The almost inconceivable good fortune of that confirmed our belief that a good angel watches over Adam’s determination to come to New York. A derelict was watching from the shadows against the wall, watching the whole return-of-the wallet drama. Our eyes met and we smiled. His smile said, "That wouldn’t have happened had I been the one to snatch that up. Your boy is blest."

My smile said, "Yes. Sometimes these things turn out right."

Went to Saint Thomas, 5th Avenue for sung mass. Arrived early enough to hear the choir warming up. It was gorgeous. I was ashamed for a moment of being so caught up in the glory of the singing, but corrected myself with the long-known truth that beauty is a surer way to God than reason, even than scripture. I had come determined to pray every spare moment for the success of Edward, taking God by storm, if that were necessary, but I’d barely got the first round out of the muzzle when that still, shockingly present Voice said, "I have already said ‘Yes’ to you." I knew that he had, but my faithlessness required me to go on haranguing even after the gift was given. That shut me up. I have already said yes to you. I was able to listen to the music. I was able to try to flirt with the man in the row in front of me. I was able to have a brief, pleasant dream during the sermon, which, on Trinity Sunday, tried and failed to explain the Trinity.

In a rare gesture of symmetry, the woman in the pew beside me left her purse, and I ran down the aisle with it in my hand to catch her. Adam’s debt is paid.

Meting of the Arch and Bruce Brown Foundation. I tried to get my mind off Edward, which was transpiring at the other end of the same block. A second visit to Francine Trevens’ doll-filled apartment. We discussed mostly bad submissions and worried about Arch’s health.

I do not want to go home. I went to see Prince Caspian near Penn Station, and when I came out I was thinking, "This is my town." Now I have to find some way to make that true.

New York continued

May 17, 2008

Brilliant cool blue light through the window. I tried for the Met the second time yesterday in the pouring rain, this time making it. A special show of Superhero fashions; a special show of Courbet, whom I had but meagerly known, but whom I like a great deal. Such energy! Energy capable of being melodramatic, even crude, such as in The Stag at Bay, but always something attractive and defiant. Set myself for a long walk home, which might have been fun, but the rain caused it to be an ordeal.

Performance last night was not brilliant. Lack of rehearsal won out over the nervous energy that pushed everything over the hump on opening night. Energy last night from the first was low, and there was a power of missed lines, some of them important. BCR was awkward and "off" at the outset, and he’s the kind of actor who reacts to bad early moments by being grudging and reluctant throughout the show. Something went awry with the speakers, which for a while sent a hornets’ nest drone out into the theater. Terrible weather left the house at about 3/4. The best thing was that I met Damian in the lobby beforehand, and we got to catch up a little. So far he’s the only person from my actual life who has seen the show in New York. It was wonderful being with him, and I remembered in seconds why I love him. There was a talk-back after the show, which went well enough. I was thinking, with great self-satisfaction, "Here I am on stage for a talk-back for MY play in New York City!" Jack cut the talk-back off when BCR began to launch rambling bits of unidentifiable philosophy into the air. Damian and I hit the rainy night, and had more drinks than we should (than I should, anyway) at a bar a block down the street. After half an hour he was my old friend again, comfortable and funny and goofy and unguarded, with that ever-young venturesomeness that I found so attractive. I left him to get into his cab with something like real grief, real anxiety for when we would meet again. When he had a few in him a vulnerability came to the surface. He is lonely and still a little uncertain in his new home. As are we all.


Afternoon: 39th street has been dug into a canyon, and I had to cross what appeared to be police barriers to get to my hotel. Thank God the guard was asleep in his chair in the perfect sun.
Today so far I have ranged from 125th Street to Macdougal. I aimed for St. John the Divine, but because I picked the wrong train, or something else was wrong, it swept past my station and on to125th. Harlem on a brilliant Saturday morning is calm and very neighborhood-y. Wound my way on foot back to the Cathedral, which was mostly boarded up, and only the choir and a fragment of the nave stood open. I’ll be more impressed the next time, I’m sure. But in the children’s garden is a statute of Saint Michael trampling Satan underfoot while riding a crab and caressing very affectionate giraffes, the sort of thing that is exactly to my taste. Took it into my head to walk the whole length of Central Park, from 110th to 59th. This was partially to have another chance to meet Mrs Thomas across from Lincoln Center, but again she wasn’t there. Almost ludicrous perfection of spring sun. From 59th I took the subway to Washington Square, which was unavailable because of construction. The West Village was blocked off for a street bazaar, which I investigated until the shadows were long and it was time for my ante-theater nap. My back was fiercely sunburned even through my shirt.

New York continued

May 16, 2008

Brisk rain. I’d saved room in my luggage by not bringing rain gear, and this is the day of reckoning.

Yesterday’s daylight hours were rather a waste, ruined by invasion by the outerworld. BUT, evening was different, and if it had to be one hemisphere of gray and one of gold, I’d rather it be the way it was.

The opening of Edward the King was splendid last night. It made a geometric leap from the premiere, and though I suppose it could have been better, it lies not within my compass to imagine it. We had a full house. I had to scrunch up under the tech window in order to have a place to sit. I didn’t mind. The music, which had been confusing (I guess that’s the word) the night before was clear and right and at some moments quite beautiful. Gaveston’s sense of drama causes him to hold lines many MANY beats longer than I would, but I focused on that because everything was so wonderful, so nearly (and in some cases, quite) perfect. My Isabella and my Edward are boyfriend and girlfriend, and I say they must be the most prodigally gifted couple in this city. Was introduced to old stars of old Broadway shows whom– as everyone thinks I’m from New York City–I was expected to know. I pretended that I did. Everybody knows everybody, so I felt a little awkward at intermission and at the reception afterward, but everyone’s calling me a genius was some compensation. The success of the show was so great that hunger and exhaustion–relief-- came upon me like a tidal wave afterward, and I did not go down and party in the Village, as I meant to do, but staggered back to my brick spike and slept, and woke this morning about 3 hours later than my custom. Everyone is of the opinion that piece should go to Broadway–two blocks away. I am of that opinion too. It is a good play and a great production, and all we need now is those wild gods who preside over luck to be on our side. Will the right person see it? Bruce whispered to me last night that if I knew the right people I should get them to come, which indicated to me that though everyone assumes these wish-granting magicians to exist, nobody knows exactly who they are. I will do what I always do– which is, everything I know how to do, then pray like mad for the rest.

New York, cont.

May 16, 2008

Brisk rain. I’d saved room in my luggage by not bringing rain gear, and this is the day of reckoning.

Yesterday’s daylight hours were rather a waste, ruined by invasion by the outerworld. BUT, evening was different, and if it had to be one hemisphere of gray and one of gold, I’d rather it be the way it was.

The opening of Edward the King was splendid last night. It made a geometric leap from the premiere, and though I suppose it could have been better, it lies not within my compass to imagine it. We had a full house. I had to scrunch up under the tech window in order to have a place to sit. I didn’t mind. The music, which had been confusing (I guess that’s the word) the night before was clear and right and at some moments quite beautiful. Gaveston’s sense of drama causes him to hold lines many MANY beats longer than I would, but I focused on that because everything was so wonderful, so nearly (and in some cases, quite) perfect. My Isabella and my Edward are boyfriend and girlfriend, and I say they must be the most prodigally gifted couple in this city. Was introduced to old stars of old Broadway shows whom– as everyone thinks I’m from New York City–I was expected to know. I pretended that I did. Everybody knows everybody, so I felt a little awkward at intermission and at the reception afterward, but everyone’s calling me a genius was some compensation. The success of the show was so great that hunger and exhaustion–relief-- came upon me like a tidal wave afterward, and I did not go down and party in the Village, as I meant to do, but staggered back to my brick spike and slept, and woke this morning about 3 hours later than my custom. Everyone is of the opinion that piece should go to Broadway–two blocks away. I am of that opinion too. It is a good play and a great production, and all we need now is those wild gods who preside over luck to be on our side. Will the right person see it? Bruce whispered to me last night that if I knew the right people I should get them to come, which indicated to me that though everyone assumes these wish-granting magicians to exist, nobody knows exactly who they are. I will do what I always do– which is, everything I know how to do, then pray like mad for the rest.

New York 3

May 15, 2008

Overcast dawn. People talk about how big everything is in New York, but it would also be possible to talk about how small the actual living space is. I watch workers hauling immense loads into tiny fright elevators, people turning on dimes in their own apartments. The Comfort Inn where I’m staying is a narrow slab twenty stories high with room for only four rooms on each floor.

Tremendous walking yesterday. I hiked up to West 64th and Lincoln Center in order to find Owen’s mother at her photo cart, but she was not there. NYU’s commencement ceremony filled the courtyard with purple. I lounged at Columbus Circle, thinking how wonderful it was to be in New York City lounging in the sun on Columbus Circle waiting to see your own play in the evening. Bought a cat painting from a cart vendor. I do like the look of New Yorkers, the language of their bodies, the private selves revealed on the streets because of the lack of private space elsewhere, for the reason already mentioned. I went to MOMA, where a few of the works were impressive and most weren’t. Much hanging of mirrors and ejecting of mist in ways that made interesting patterns in harsh, focused light. One corridor with hard yellow light shows you what you would look like if you were in black and white. I like going to MOMA because I’ve a membership card and they whisk me past the door and the impressive lines. Wrote a poem in the café while eating, essentially, a dish of leaves. Watched workers with their shirts off cavorting–it was lunchtime after all–on the elaborate roofs of 53rd Street.

I’ve almost stopped looking for Susan. There was never a good chance that I’d run into her on the street, but I still looked. Now she’d be an old lady and I would look right past her, maybe.

Dozed some, had very odd tuna at a restaurant down the street, showered and went to the theater. Bruce looked right past me in the elevator. I was out of context. Everyone–especially Sidney–kept warning me that it was a preview, essentially a dress rehearsal, as they’d never done a run-through with tech. All that considered, it was very well indeed. The decision to use British accents dismayed me a little, partially because I didn’t think Brian’s thick Cockney was finding its way into the ear. But, he was getting laughs, and all the accents settled into refined East Coast American before the night was over. The set is gorgeous, elaborate where it needs to be, cold and austere where it needs to be. It’s a little massive, and the men-in-black can be seen grunting and straining onstage trying to move it, but that may be part of its charm. The sound effects were too loud and the actors too soft, but I trust they heard that themselves. The lines that were dropped might have added ten minutes to the play, but that is, God willing, something only a playwright would hear. So, bla bla bla from a guy who never imagined as a kid that his work would be produced in New York City. Well, he did actually, but–. Cell phones went off twice during the first act. The second time the offending party decided to pretend it wasn’t his, and the ring cycle went to its bitter and dialog-annihilating end. Perhaps others were not as infuriated by it as I, though Bruce was spinning in the next seat, glaring into the room as though to set the offender afire with his X-ray eyes. Some of the performance, dress rehearsal or not, was stellar. Megan was absolutely on, all fire and hidden evil, with that supple and expressive voice of hers. JoAnne as the bishop had grown the most since last year. She was every bit as perverse as the role demands, and her interpretation added a Tudor bottom that was exactly what was needed. Patrick was perfect. Chad was clearly in a rehearsal trying new things, and that was well. All was well, and the show could go as it was, though I expect opening night will be that many times more remarkable.

Praise was high and universal– at least universal among those who spoke to me at all, though one man couldn’t find his way around the fact that a Medieval king should be using cell phones and computers. "It’s set in modern London," says I. "But, this sort of thing could never happen nowadays," says he. I allowed as how it could not. One man who had seen a couple of the Edward II’s which seemed to be in fashion this season said, "You’re way better than that Marlowe. I mean, what’s with him? And he’s supposed to be a big deal, isn’t he?" I said, "Yes he is."

I was sad that no one invited me with them to party after the performance. Perhaps I should have invited myself, or perhaps everyone went home to lick such wounds as they might have imagined they had. I was in the mood to be garrulous and bubbly, but that will have to keep till opening night, tonight. I needed beer. I almost never need beer. I wandered downtown and hit a couple of mustang bars–Mustang Harry, Mustang Sally–and an Irish bar I forget the name of, where I met Roberto, a Brazilian sent here by his father to learn English. Whoever was teaching him should give the money back. But it was all right; he expressed himself well enough to carry on a discourse about the relative merits of Brittney Spears and Whitney Houston. He thought he was in an Italian bar, a mistake which seemed to center on his inability to tell orange (in the many Irish flags hanging from the wall) and red (in the Italian flag) unless it was pointed out to him. The shamrocks and the pots of gold on the mirrors meant nothing to him. He assumed I was Irish–how else would I know all that?–and I let him. I showed him the program for Edward, and what he seized on was that it was a gay event, and instantly he invited me to his place, and I might have gone, except that it was on Long Island, which he pronounced with the hard "g" of Long Islanders. There was a guess-the-age contest in the bar, led by the gorgeous bartended, and my age was guessed at 37. The light was very flattering. Nevertheless, I walked back up 7th Avenue valuing that as the triumph of the night.

But tonight belongs to Edward. People assume it is going to Broadway and ask me when it will open there. I assume no such thing, and cringe, lest the jealous gods be listening. I have some of the best actors in New York. The idea that Edward might take them somewhere they want to go is sweet to me.