Wild Heart

The Sunday Times and Me

I base my fashion taste on what doesn't itch. ~ Gilda Radner

At first we were wildly in love. I'd leap out of bed on a Sunday morning and dash downstairs to find the blue-wrapped paper at my doorstep. It waited for me as I made my morning tea, set out my vitamins, gathered my notebook and pen - a ritual that allowed me to savor what was to come. Then came the sorting, moving the sports section to the front (get it over with) and the Sunday Review section at the back, with a special place for the Book Review.

We'd spend hours together, laughing and talking, imagining where we would travel and what we would wear, talking about seeing Phillip Seymour Hoffman in Death of a Salesman on Broadway- who knew that play would be so timely today? Once I said, Do you like musicals? and we laughed knowingly together. Does a chicken have lips?

Then one Sunday morning, I woke in a bad mood, my ritual not quite so delicious, the tea over-steeped, the Times stubbornly uncommunicative. "Who dresses like this?!" I said querulously to the Style section. And to Arts and Leisure, I muttered, "Matthew Broderick and Nathan Lane again?!" Finally, all those ads from Cartier and Sotheby's. "These people have wa-a-a-ay too much money!"

The honeymoon was over.

We still spend Sunday mornings together, sometimes not parting ways until dinner, but we're older and wiser now. I've learned to roll my eyes at the petty whining of a 30-something mother who wrote an essay about her tragedy: I have two healthy children and I can't get pregnant again. Boo-hoo. I view the Style section with the eye of a feminist who knows that the woman wearing those high-platform stiletto heels is dead meat if she tries to run in them. Run? Hah! I'll bet someone carries her to the exact spot where she is to be photographed, and then sets  her up like a manikin for the camera. Those shoes are not made for walking!

I still get along well with the Sunday Review and the Book Review, although why the TBR interviewed the producer of some TV show called Girls about her reading habits is beyond me. Of course she reads trash! At least she admitted it. One morning that interview (a new feature in the TBR) was with Margaret Albright, and I found that we loved the same books. Imagine! I have something in common with Margaret Albright. But that was weeks ago, and now I can't remember the titles of the books we both love.

It's good to get perspective. It's good to broaden my view of the world, to take the ugly with the beautiful and know I can get on with my life. It's also good to snort tea up my nose when some ridiculous photo or comment or essay takes me by surprise. At least I can still be taken by surprise. And one doesn't have to be wildly in love to enjoy another's company.

Next week: Shoe Contraptions: How to put them on, walk in them, take them off, throw them out, repair damage to feet.

 

Distracted by Mink

Last week a Macy's ad in the Sunday NY Times told me it's time to store my furs.

All week I've been distracted by that Macy's ad, not that I am worried about storing my furs, of which I have none, but I kept hearing the ending lines of one of my favorite Millay poems:

 

Moving from the sublime to the ridiculous, I also started humming this little tune to myself:

 

I can hardly wait to see what my Sunday Times has in store for me tomorrow.

My Body, My Self

Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives, the power to retell it, rethink it, deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless, because they cannot think new thoughts.
~ Salman Rushdie

I grew up in the 50s, pre-feminism, pre-women's lib. Women could vote by then, but they were not to worry their pretty little heads about politics. I married in the early 60s and turned over the making of opinions to my husband, and when he had them ready, I took them on as my own. In the early 70s I was raising daughters in an apartment in the suburbs. The Women's Movement was something I watched on TV and waited for my husband to tell me what I thought. In the late 70s, I was slowly dying in a house in the 'burbs, polishing furniture, cleaning already clean toilets, and having the meatloaf on the table when my husband got home from work.

 In 1978 I went back to school, meaning I picked up one college class at a time and then two and then three and by the end of the first two years I had opinions of my own rolling out of my brain and crashing into his opinions, like a bowling ball aimed true, destroying what had been a carefully constructed peaceful life.

Why do I think of this now?

I write from a peaceful home I've lived in mostly alone for most of the last 15 years. It's not neat and it's mostly clean, but if you're planning to drop by, don't. It's not that clean. Here's what started me thinking this direction: I was going to write about going on Weight Watchers last month, and when I wrote the title of this blog, I remembered the book called Our Bodies, Ourselves. I can still see the cover and I remember how radical the contents were—something about owning our own bodies, right?

Going to college whacked the heck out of everything I had believed and believed in, and from where I sit now—almost 30 years after getting my MA—I see that my pre-college life was like a template of a fairy tale, and I filled in the blanks to create the tale with my name in it. I gave it my all and gradually discovered that, like most fairy tales, it was pretty only on the outside.

This is not a complaint. I bemoan nothing. We never stop writing our tale, and when we're gone, someone else will tell our stories and the stories will change until they fade out when the last person with a good memory tells the last one. My father used to say about one of his grandparents, "He was a mean man!" and that's all I know of this bearded man in the curly-edged photo.

We're born into a time that makes its own demands on us. We step in, we step up, we keep going and we keep changing with the times—or we don't. One of the things Dad was proud of at the end of his life was that he had never touched a computer. That used to surprise me. Now I'm wondering what current thing I'll be happy to have skirted (Twitter, maybe?)

I came into the world two weeks before the Enola Gay flew over Hiroshima. This world is not the same as that world. And I have lots of opinions about that and a whole bunch of other things.

 

 

Seaworthy Books

"Don't let me get sappy on you, but when you get right down to it, every collection of letters is a magic spell, even if it's a moronic proclamation by the Emperor. Words have their impact, girl. . . . I may not know how to fly but I know how to read, and that's almost the same thing."
~ Gregory Maguire, from Out of Oz

Are you a Reader? As in: I can't imagine my life without books.

Have you ever tried to count how many books you've read in your lifetime? How about in the last year?

That's strictly an I'm-curious question. Being a Reader has nothing to do with how many books you read or even what books you read. It's more about how you see yourself.

A friend once posed this question:

If you were sailing on a yacht, say for a year or so, and you had only the shelf over your bed to hold books, which books would be on that shelf?

I love this question, and here's why: I think I'd pack it with books that I wouldn't normally pick up and read, like The Complete Works of Shakespeare and maybe a big fat Norton Anthology. It reminds me of the places we take an out-of-town visitor that we wouldn't usually go to, even though we live close. After I moved to Colorado, I took a friend to California to see some of the sights, and we went to the Mystery Spot just outside of Santa Cruz. I lived in that area most of my life, spent a year living in Santa Cruz, and never went to the Mystery Spot.

Same with books: Shakespeare and more than one Norton Anthology are on my shelf. I can read them anytime I want. Instead I go to the library or download a book to my Kindle or buy one on sale to read. But if I'm going to read on the open sea (in between bouts of throwing up over the yardarm - or whatever), I need variety. I want to be able to reread, study, get inspired, ponder, wonder, make notes in the margins. And most of all: I wouldn't want to run out of something to read. Is that a Reader's nightmare or what?!

I'm curious: What books would be on your little shelf over your narrow bed in a cabin (in a cavern, excavating for a mine) of a small ship (is a yacht a ship?) on the ocean for a year? Here are mine - in order of importance - at least for today:

• The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
• The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present (ed: Phillip Lopate)
• The Norton Anthology of [fill in the blank]
• Some anthology of modern poetry
• The I Ching
• The Tao Te Ching
  
• The Holy Bible (probably - maybe)

And tomorrow? Hmmm . . . .

 

 

 

Happy . . . um . . . you know . . . .

By the time you swear you're his / Shivering and sighing,
And he swears his passion is / Infinite, undying,
Lady, make a note of this: / One of you is lying.
~Dorothy Parker

Time to haul out one of my favorite Dorothy Parker poems, which I had memorized by the time I was 18. My cynicism about "true love" runs so deep that I felt it even before I was ever truly "in love," which happened to me once and was full-blown before I even had time to recognize it for what it was. But that's another story.

My favorite persona, QBU (Queen Bitch of the Universe) went grocery shopping tonight and was spitting sparks by the time she got from her car to the automatic door. It was all those men coming out of the store carrying big bouquets of roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and they all looked so darned proud of themselves, some of them even giving me that, "Aren't I a good husband/lover/boyfriend" smile.

Note: On the outside I look like a kindly old granny; on the inside, well . . . it was all I could do to keep QBU from snarling.

What the heck does it say to a loved one that you brought home - from the grocery store, no less - a scentless bouquet of red roses that you had to pick through to find the flowers that weren't dropping their petals yet? And really, who wants a box of Whitman's or Russel Stover's chocolates or, for that matter, Godiva chocolates that you picked up at Barnes & Noble?

As I put lettuce and tomatoes into my basket, QBU was hissing, "Probably the only day of the year they bring home flowers! Wife probably told him not to come home without them. She's just as bad as they are! What does she do for him, huh?! Where's the love, I ask you!"

Mostly I lke QBU. She kicks butt. And I am fortunate enough to know several couples - gay and lesbian and straight - who truly love each other and make their relationships work by showing that love. Today I salute them with a blown kiss - even if they just came out of Albertson's carrying that questionable cargo of love. Because really, I think there's nothing better in the whole wide world than love, lots of it, freely given and openly received.

Happy Valentine's Day, loved ones!

Letter to Blaze

She thought she might be dying herself, and was curiously objective about it. For once she felt some relief from the itch that could be satisfied only by inserting a pen between her thumb and fingers and working it against ruled paper. ~ Gregory Maguire, from Lost

Dear Blaze,

You ask how I'm doing, how the writing is going. For days I've put off answering your email. Too embarrassed to admit that I am, once again, in a funk. I'm in a super-funk. I want to give up but I don't know how.

Today I'm finding it funny, but really, I have an undercurrent of who-gives-a-damn. My belly feels tight and my breath is shallow.

I have no faith in what I write or in the writing process. I've been writing since forever. My first journal was a tiny address book someone gave me when I was 12. It's red and the pages have come unstuck. I still have it. I say I have no faith in what I write, but I can't throw any of it away. When I die, build my coffin from all my notebooks and send them through the flames with my gnarl-fingered hands still clutching a pen.

That's how the writing is going.

I think about writing all the time. I think about the characters I've created and I wonder what they're doing. I think about that house in San Jose where most of my Married stories come from. I think about Childhood in San Francisco, and I mix up the true part with the parts I've incorporated into fiction. But what's the difference? It's all memory now, memory and photographs, and so I give a Stardust character my grandparents' home on Diamond Street. It's mine to give. In my memories, I meet her at the top of the stairs where it smells like Grandma's talcum powder and the shadows are deep.

It's February. And for some odd reason, I'm living in Colorado. Is that a story I made up?  I look out the window and see melting snow. Not San Francisco. I go outside to collect the mail and I hug the fleece jacket to my body and squint against the glare of the sun and skate carefully over ice and curse the ache in my bones.

Twenty years ago I had such an ache for the Bay Area that I moved back there, but what I ached for wasn't there anymore. My daughters were grown, and I couldn't go back and do it right this time. My grandparents were long dead, their San Francisco house almost unrecognizable from a street I remember being much wider. And where did the trees come from?

I talked to my youngest sister yesterday and told her I feel like I'm going through yet another mid-life crisis. Can you have a mid-life crisis at 66? Here's something I know from this wise old age. I can whine and complain and throw hissy-fits all I want, and each hissy fit is just an older (and more pointless) version of the ones I threw when I was 12, 27, 36. The big difference is that now I'm old enough to know better. Of course, that doesn't stop me, which makes it even more embarrassing.

There are as many ways to waste a life as there are stories about wasting a life. So I may as well tell the stories.

Nancy Blaze, here's where I land today about how the writing is going: The only thing I know to do is to keep putting the pen to paper, stop judging the stories, forget about how an audience will or won't receive the pieces I write. It's not about audience. It's never been about audience.

And it's time to stop whining. I wallow. I'm over it. For now.

Thank you for asking.

Wandering the Inner Road with Joni Mitchell

I wish I were a Joni Mitchell fan. I tried to be when I was in college and my friend Kate listened to Joni. Kate was cool, and I wanted to be like her. So I turned my back (again) on my country roots and bought a Joni Mitchell tape. I don't know what happened to it. Probably gave it to Kate.  I'm no nearer being an acolyte today than I was in 1982.

Today I'm listening to Joni, just to see if I've matured enough to feel that joy I feel when I listen to Leonard Cohen or Rufus Wainwright or Nina Simone. Nope. Not happening.

As I heated some homemade soup just now, put crackers on a plate, refilled my mug of iced tea, I wondered why this bonding with Joni never took. I love her voice. I think she's a brilliant singer, a stunning songwriter, innovative and influential. But I can't sing along to her songs. Really. Try it.

 

One of the things I do love about her is that she is a storyteller. Sheryl Crowe does the same thing: tells a story with her music. Listen to "All I Wanna Do."

I grew up with music in the house. My father played guitar, self-taught, and often wrote his own lyrics, usually to make us kids laugh. When we'd go to Grandma's house on Sundays, two uncles would bring their banjos, one uncle brought a ukulele, and if we were lucky, Aunt Helen would play her harmonica - should could make it sound like a train. They were all self-taught, and they filled my San Francisco childhood with the music of their Indiana childhood. It wasn't the style of music that was rural Indiana - it was the heart of the people who made the music. They played out of pure joy, and the music was toe-tapping and get-up-and-dance-with-the-baby. If we knew the words, we sang. If we didn't know the words, we sang.

I sing. Mostly in the car, singing along to Queen and the Beatles and the songs from Gypsy and Guys and Dolls. I come by this trait honestly, from a family that was, in the 50s, what I thought a family should be, and I was surprised that my friends' evenings at home didn't include music. It was just the way it was, like sitting down to dinner around a big table when Daddy got home from work at 5:30 and eating Mother's homemade potato soup and then watching "Gunsmoke." Who didn't?

Now I've wandered from Joni to Gunsmoke, taking a rambling stroll through music. Since Spotify, I've had the opportunity to expand even further my already broad rnage of musical interests. It pleases me, for example, to make an iTunes playlist with "I've Got a Brand New Pair of Rollerskates" tucked up against Kathleen Battle singing "Azulao." On Spotify I listened to the latest Little Willies album (For the Good Times) before it was released in the U.S. And I heard the new Leonard Cohen (Old Ideas) on the first day it was available.

Joni is an acquired taste for someone like me, who was raised on country, family, and rock and roll. Single-malt scotch is an acquired taste too, and I didn't let that stop me. Come to think of it, Joni Mitchell would make a great companion to a short glass of Macallam on a cold snowy night. Ah! I knew I could find the motivation!

 

February in Colorado

I took this photo at about noon today after a night of snow falling and blowing and accumulating. All day I did laundry, made soup, spent time at my computer - and the snow fell.

 

At dusk, I took this photo. Snow was still falling and the wind had subsided. I had eaten my first bowl of vegetable soup, burning my tongue as I always do because I can't wait for it to cool. So delicious.

 

Now I'm ready to settle into bed and read for awhile. Snow continues to fall. I canceled my plans to go out. I have soup. And clean laundry. And books. It's February in Colorado.

 

A Poet Writes about Life

Wislawa Szymborska, a Polish poet, died today. She was 89. I am grateful to her for writing her poems and getting them published. Below is one of my favorites.

* * * * *

A Note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;

to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain
from everything it's not;

to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;

and if only once
to stumble upon a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.

   -- by Wislawa Szymborska

Reader Beware!

Dear Reader,

This appeared in my in-box today in my Public Radio Market newsletter:

I read it and immediately felt compelled to raise a loud HELLO-O-O-O-O!!! Did the blurb-writer actually read Moby Dick? I think not. I, however, have read it twice - because it was required reading in two college Lit classes - and I am here to tell you that if you want a "gripping adventure narrative," you'd best read only the first 10 pages and the last 5.

Moby Dick opens with the now famous line, "Call me Ishmael." I love the narrator and the ship; I love Ishamael's bunk-mate Queequeg. The opening is compelling - and then we wade through hundreds of pages of details about whale blubber. We don't get to the whale until the very last few pages. Yes, I agree that the story is told in "an uncanny and unforgettable fashion," but only because I'll never forget having to read it twice, both times wondering how the heck it came to be known as a "classic American novel."

An aside:

I just went upstairs to find my copy of Moby Dick and make sure of the details. All of my old text books are in one area of my shelves (unlike all my other books, which are tucked in anywhere, Harry Potter keeping company with A.S. Byatt who is next to the Dalai Lama), and I couldn't find it. I scanned the shelves again, looking for that big fat book among all my other big fat books that no one wants to read but has to read in English classes. Nope. Moby Dick is not next to a (relatively) slim volume of Melville's shorter works. It's not stashed in with the wordy Victorians or the wordy Russians. As I scanned the shelves for the third time, I cracked myself up with this thought: Maybe I lent it to someone. Right. Someone borrowed my copy of Moby Dick. For a doorstop, maybe! Then I wondered if maybe I had used it for a doorstop, but no - I use my two-volume set of the Oxford English Dictionary to keep my bedroom door from swinging shut.

I was an English major through two college degrees, and I've read a lot of books that - trust me - most of us would never pick up and read just for fun. And I loved every one of those big fat difficult complex fascinating enlightening life-changing books. Except for Moby Dick. Maybe I would have loved it if it hadn't been pitched to me as a "great American classic." Maybe I would have loved it in an editing class: trim all the fat and you've got a wonderful, engrossing 15-page story. I just never understood - and still don't - why it is considered "great."

So if you also get the Public Radio Market in your in-box and you read this lovely blurb and decide you've been missing something in your life because you haven't read Moby Dick, by all means buy it and read it. Enjoy the story of the whale hunt (of course, by the time you get to the end of the book, you will have forgotten the set-up for the hunt in the beginning and will have to read that part again). Enjoy the details of being on the open sea in a creaky old ship with creaky old shipmates. Enjoy the fascinating (I'm serious here) details of how to render whale fat. Learn everything you could possibly want to know about amber. Recognize where the name "Starbuck" came from in the TV series "Starship Gallactica." If you know anything about projection, note how Ahab characterizes the whale and ask yourself if the pot is calling the kettle black. In fact, I'm now feeling disappointed that I seem to no longer have my college copy of this enthralling story. Hmmm. Guess I'll have to run out to my local independent bookstore and get a copy - you know - to replace the one I lent to a friend.