love is a place

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

E.E. Cummings (1894-1962)

“That is happiness: to be dissolved into something complete and great.” — Willa Cather

“Virtue is performance,” I said to Danielle Westerman on Wednesday when we had lunch in her sunroom. “A form of acting. Someone said something like that, but I can’t remember who.”
“Yeats, I think,” she said dreamily, stretching in her chair.
“Yes, Yeats.”

— “Unless,” Carol Shields

“Words /
as slippery as smooth grapes, /
words exploding in the light /
like dormant seeds waiting /
in the vaults of vocabulary, /
alive again, and giving life: /
once again the heart distills them.”

— Pablo Neruda, poet and diplomat (1904-1973)

She’s reviewing big girl boudoir toys over on her blog. She kills me, with the descriptions. Yummy pink!

I will continue to write about… yummy pink sugar cookies. Yes, we need all kinds of writing in this world, yes we do. Hmm. Here’s a question: If you gave me a choice right now between a yummy pink sugar cookie and nooky, what would I take?

Both.

Here’s a thought: For those of you who are long-time readers of blogs (lurkers or not), have your blog needs changed? My writing has changed a lot in five years, mebbe not for the better, who can tell? But I’m going to the blogs for different things now: Less parenting advice, more recipes; less for the serious stuff, more for the humor. It’s not that I don’t need or want the parenting advice, I do. Oh, I do. But I’m not finding as much as I’d like for parents of tweens.

So… why do you go read around?

Kudos to my old colleague from Thee O, Randy Gragg, on doing a stellar job in his new gig as editor of Portland Monthly magazine. They’re on Facebook, too. (Isn’t everyone? Dang.)

Last month’s cover story was “Explore Hidden Oregon”; this month’s is “Best Restaurants 2009.” The magazine has a stable of good writers and photographers, and Randy does a nice job with his editor’s notes. (His fondness for architecture, photography and food shines through.) Good profiles, too, including last month’s story on John Haines, executive director of Mercy Corps Northwest, who is getting loans to people who need it most. Also thought the graphic novel-style article on the Trail Blazers, “Game On!” in this month’s issue was funny.

Not crazy about the teeny-tiny print in the listings sections. My eyes! Dammit, I hate needing progressive lenses, alright? But honestly — I just want everyone, newspapers and magazines alike, to stick with the same point size so my brain doesn’t have TO switch BACK AND FORTH everyotherpage.

Other than that teeny little gripe, nice job, y’all. Keep up the good work.

(thanks, Rob I., for the link.)

“The first symptom of love in a young man is shyness; the first symptom in a woman, it’s boldness.” — Victor Hugo, poet, novelist and dramatist (1802-1885)

E: “You notice how every conversation we have starts sounding like ‘What We Talk About When We Talk About Love’?”
me: “Yeah. Kinda funny. I love Carver.”
E: “We’re okay writers, but we’ll never be as good as Carver.”
me: “We could still try.”
(we both laugh, knowing there’s no hope.)

— conversation between E, my college lover, and me, circa 1989

“If this sounds like the story of a life, okay.” — Raymond Carver

“It’s a dangerous mission. You/could die out there. You /could go on forever.” — Tess Gallagher from “Instructions to the Double”

“You don’t know how strong you are until strong is your only choice.” — quote of the day, from my cousin’s friend

There is a good interview with Tess Gallagher (Raymond Carver’s widow) in today’s Oregonian. Jeff Baker wrote it — he always does a nice job with his stories. (His profile last month of author Katherine Dunn was great, too.)

Kinda funny, how much Carver has impacted my life. How? I cannot tell you, it’s private. I think of him when I write, when I cry, when I eat a good piece of bread. I think of him when I think of certain birthday cakes and certain bakers. I think of him when I see bad teeth, when I get scared out of my head, when I rage. I think of him when I read bad writing and I wish they were hitting it and quitting it instead of wasting my time. I read him for the first time, I loved his writing, I re-read him, my admiration for him got stronger, I edited the literary magazine at my college, I sent Tess Gallagher a note. Would she consider sending me a poem for my little magazine? She would. She did. It was a great poem. (“Why We Don’t Remember the Future,” Portland Review, Vol. 36, No. 3, July, 1990.) I thought to myself, Self, that is one classy dame. (Do you know her work? Do you know his? Go read them, they’re great.) (If their writing upsets you, please don’t blame me. They don’t write mushy-mushy, so get ready.)

Now I read that she is doing okay, has found new love, has her dogs, her writing, her work to keep Ray’s work in print, and up to their standards. She would like to see more of his original stuff in print. Original the way it was written, not the way it was slashed and edited. I admire her for doing this, for still being his partner, even 21 years after his death. (How can he have been gone for more than two decades already?)

It’s good that I didn’t marry E. I think of him sometimes, with good thoughts in my heart, not evil. He was so skittish; I was so worried, even then. For good reason.

On E’s desire to have a large family with me: “We could have 10 babies, and they’d wear shoes sizes 2 to 12.”

Yeah. I would have never married Steve, and had these two particular children. I like all three of ’em. What if I’d married E? I might have had double that, and possibly more losses than the two I’ve already had. Would I be able to write at all, if I’d had more children? Maybe. Would I have gone into library work? I love library work. Impossible to believe, even for me, but I love it more than writing. I’m so competitive with other writers in some areas, but as far as library work goes, I want to share all the love, all the time.

I will still write. Will I ever get a book published? Maybe.

For this afternoon, I’ll finish vacuuming the office. I just picked a huge bowl of ripe, juicy tomatoes. I bought bell peppers, garlic and onions at the store. I’ll take all that, plus salt, pepper, oregano, sugar and hot sauce, and make a big pot of marinara and add fresh basil when it’s done. I may run my son’s friend home; maybe his mom will get tired of waiting for us and come get him. I’ll think about pulling an old manuscript out of the box where it lives upstairs. Maybe I’ll redline it and do another re-write. I’ve sent it out so many times I don’t care anymore, but I’d like to leave something for my kids, anyway. Something more impressive than what I’ve got.

Me, just now, to my rowdy son and his rowdy friend: “Get out of here please, I’m trying to write.”

Yeah, I’m fine with Hockey God, the two kids, plus their assorted friends. My library work, my students, my writing, my garden. My tears. I am so lucky to have so much. For the first time in a long time, they’re tears of joy, not grief. That’s something. That’s plenty. The inscription on Carver’s grave reads:

LATE FRAGMENT
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.