Wednesday, March 4, 2015

March 4, 2015

Last night was the rehearsal where I got the rhythm, felt I knew the oily Count, felt secure. There is typically one day when this comes, and I am glad this time that it was not later.

Poking around on the real estate pages, I discover that my house was built in 1923, that it is officially a 3 bedroom house in which four unrelated people were living previously, and that Stewart sold it to me for a $100,000 more than he bought it for. His improvements are pretty spectacular, so I do not begrudge that. 62 is listed as a “four bedroom apartment,” which is the last thing I would have thought of. One page emphasizes that it has the lowest evaluation in the neighborhood, though I think that was severe. I made $100,000 on that sale, too, though I will probably never actually see the money.

I’m going on about the high philosophies and benefits of the Enlightenment and Romanticism, and one girl raises her hand and says, “Yes, but only if you’re a white male.” I know she felt compelled to do it. I know she has a women’s studies teacher who admonishes her that this observation must be made in every class. I know that she was serious as cancer, but I can barely get past my initial response, which is to smile and say “there, there.’ She did open the door to my lecture on the differences between precept and practice, all practice being flawed.

The Ferguson cops were punks. We knew it; now it’s official. The homeless man murdered by police in Los Angeles (who was down on the ground and outnumbered 6 to 1) “reached for an officer’s gun.” We know that is a coward’s lie. How long will this go on?

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

March 3, 2015

Up in the dark, the newsmen babbling their babble in the kitchen below. Surprisingly, I can hear every word from my study. Isis. Tikrit. Netanyahu. Spill. Massacre. Congress. So many things that hit the news astonish me simply because of the time and energy that seem to be available in which to do evil. My own career as a villain would be cut short, if by nothing else, by lack of application.
Gold crocus. Green spears of incipient daffodils. Re-hired B to clean my house, S seeming to have drifted back into the West without a sign.

Monday, March 2, 2015

March 2, 2015

Complicated, detailed dream about taking back the gallery I used to run in an urban mall in downtown Syracuse, renting space from Dick at Westcott Cordial. Of course there was never any such place, but the dream was so thick with history I must assume for a while it was a recurring motive.

Blurred my lines at rehearsal yesterday. I know them. I must conquer interior distraction, place them at an exact position in my head for them to come flowing out. This process is entirely visual.

I believe I have lost my sense of taste. Everything is bland, though still pleasing or not according to texture. If it is not some temporary flourish of this endless pulmonary infection, then it happened in a single night.

Having no life at the moment. . .

Sunday, March 1, 2015

March 1, 2015

 Pearly first of March.

 Rehearsal and writing, writing and rehearsal. If the weather allows, “school” will get back into the mix. Not embarrassing myself at rehearsals. Have to be told where the envelope is so I can push it.

Revised The Beautiful Johanna 
Finally cooked the pasta I brought with me from 62. It was a symbol. Now it is breakfast, lunch, supper. Who knows? Breakfast tomorrow?

Rose an hour after retiring to vomit. All well after that. Lay abed with Circe dreaming vivid dreams.

Went to the web pages of the other Great Plains playwrights. I’m the only one WITHOUT a web page. Even that truth does not arouse me to try to make one. They all seem pretty badass, except that my record of actual productions is way ahead. 

Friday, February 27, 2015

February 27, 2015

Finished In the Paramount Hotel.

Perpetual dull headache from the sinus clog, which itself is perpetual.

Almost immovable with lethargy.

My golden crocus unfolds, heedless of a week of bad weather.

Videos on the Internet of The Islamic State destroying the sacred heritage of Mesopotamia. Wired the way I am, this of all such images strikes at my gut, makes me howl with rage and despair. We set our own nest ablaze, but there is no proof we are the phoenix.

AABB gives a pile of money to a lesbian theater collective. Their work was not good, but one of our members fights so hard to make sure only women will get money from us, on the ground– to which she clings no matter how many time it is refuted by actual data on the page– that women have been given a raw deal in the theater. I open my Dramatists Guild Directory to FORTY FOUR all female or female-first theaters or production opportunities. And not one which so much as uses the word “male” or “men.” It no longer embarrasses us to be politically passionate about the aggrandizing of our own selves, about anointing our own prejudices as sacred.

Leonard Nimoy is dead.

Cold bright day. It deserved better than I gave it.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

February 26, 2015

Padding around in the snow before dawn snapping photos, though photos of snow with a flash do not work very well. Crows were calling from high up. Maybe they’d found something. Maybe they were greeting the sun. Snow fell thick and beautiful all the night, and I slept in the windowy front bedroom so to have the illusion of its falling all around me.

First attempt at off-book last night did not cover me with glory.

Met E, the new owner of the Studios, yesterday morning, being led around by gorgeous Luiz. Who knows what they will do, how long I will stay? He had a money-grubbing aura. Met also my new neighbor in the studio, Elizabeth, and her daughter Maddie. Elizabeth grew up in West Clare–and could be Mrs Markham’s sister-- one of my favorite places on earth. She picked up a copy of Bird Songs of the Mesozoic years ago, loved it, copied parts of it down in her diary, sought me in Asheville in 2010 but didn’t find me, moved here, took a studio at Phil Mechanic so to be beside me. So she said. I was thinking the whole time “Jesus, I hope actually meeting me is not a let-down.” When L used the studio last he blew the circuit breakers and just left, so I came in to outdoor freeze condition. I didn’t test to see whether oil paint freezes or not. Met the new owner, fled into the morning.

A great racket of crows overhead.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

February 25, 2015

Blue dawn, striped as an agate.

Did something I’ve never done before: went to the Y and did not work out, but merely sat in the steam room. But I feel great right now. The gents in the steam room were talking about real estate. One man was looking for a small place for his son, to start him out in life.

I leave the night rehearsals staggering with exhaustion. Partially it is by dint of having a day job; partially it is because I am the oldest person in the room, probably by at least a decade. Yesterday I was the youngest. You blink and the world changes.