March 2005

On a brisk first day of spring, I was able to rejoin our reconstituted drum circe. They have met two Mondays already - but today was the first day I could go. Roldan is right - it is very good therapy for a Monday-back-t0-workaday-life.

It was a bit chilly and just barely warm enough in our somewhat temporary quarters on the patio at the East End Cafe. We have unofficial permission to be there - just until someone complains. If someone does, we are outta there. The Cafe is hesitant to give us official permission until it is warmer for logic that makes sense only to them. Warm weather -more beer guzzling patrons on the porch - already rowdy ??? I dunno.

It was a feast on many levels, and fingers stayed warm as long as the rhythm was working. No loungers tonight - the dilettante drummer who is there, but just barely. Just us - who need to eat of this experience on a regular basis. Roldan-Duane-Tony-me-and NewGuy or hence he will be called until I pick up on his name. Crazy Roldan and Duane were drinking cold dark beer out there where we could see every breath. I had a mug of Irish coffee that could do dual duty - handwarmer or heartwarmer - whichever.

There is talk of Sunday drumming again in Wilmington when the weather is warmer.

I collected some phone numbers and Roldan did a double take. On the top of the page for U-V-W was my late friend Sylvester Urquhart’s name and number. Turns out Sylvester was a friend to us both for the last 10 years of his life, but until last fall Roldan and I had never met. I treasure the print of Sylvesters “The King” that is framed in my hall. Like Gibby Perry, he is one who taught me many things. We were both strugging with giving ourselves permission to be our artist self when Sylvester and I first met now nearly 20 years ago. I am reminded that I need to use this gift of mine for a longer life than his to good purpose.

It is comforting to know that Lady gets such a sense of security by just being near me. She finds a comfy spot near my feet and zonks out. {snuffle} {snort} {snort} {snuffle} ah what I wouldn’t give for the ability to find a security blanket so easily.

I had the oddest dream. It was the first day back at the Creative Pulse. I was one day late. It had been moved to the UCLA campus in Westwood, and I didn’t know that. I spent the longest most anxious time trying to find out what building we were in, and with a surge of relief and a measure of joy I finally found my way back.

I had to jump right in to - you guessed it - personal performance - without the benefit of one day to have mental transitions. It was - jump out of car (parked illegally of course) - run around campus in a frenzy - personal performance. Talk about a “cold reading”.

Nor was anyone was thrilled to see me. There were three or four first year students that were hypercritical of everything - and they had already formed the “critic’s claque” in record time. I was up on their chopping block after my personal performance, which was put through a critical wringer, in which I had to defend nearly every aspect of myself, including my right to breathe the same rarified air as themselves. It was as if the personalities from the judges of American Idol or Project Runway were being channeled through these members of our group. [ Of course in the dream, I didn't ask myself what 1st year students would be doing in the 2nd year performance group anyway ]

The dream progressed from terror to worse - until I had to wake up. I can see the face of this one young woman so clearly - she had made it her mission in life to prove that my whole premise for art and life was a cop-out for the untalented, undisciplined, and undeserving. Most of the time, I get anxious about what all is left to be accomplished in this field project year. This time I was glad to wake up and still be in Dela-where?.

With both legs and feet - so far anyway. A few of the toes on his right foot are goners, but there seems to be no pressing need to deal with them. The hospital care worker and rehab doctor seem very sanguine about the prospect of discharging my father. I do not share their equanimity, but I do share their optimism.

The hard part is now to come. How to remain steadfast in my committment to preserve time and space, especially mental space for me - and my work - however silly it may seem to others, and especially to my father. He expressed such confidence that he doesn’t foresee the need for any extra home help workers - because he has me.

Aha. Well. Yes. And No. Unlike my mother, I don’t anticipate any excessive sturm and drang in trying to balance what my father’s needs may be, with what I need to do. He is the ultimate scientist - always reasonable when presented with adequate and accurate data to make decisions.

In the immediate short term I am not too worried. It is the longer term that has the more expensive emotional consequences.