(…) People need to talk, and often the willingness to sit and listen is the greatest kindness one person can offer to another. One of the first lessons of childhood is to be wary of strangers, and while this is good counsel to guard against the world’s very small nefarious element, it also teaches us to block out the large majority of those who just have something on their mind they’d like to say. We are taught to be suspicious, especially of anyone who might not look like us or share out beliefs. By the time we reach adulthood, many of us have perfected the art of isolation, of being careful, of not listening in the name of safety. But the truth is that we need to hear other people, all people, especially in those moments when we don’t know exactly where we’re going ourselves.
– Ann Patchett, in What Now?
Here is an art (heart) piece by M. I love that it contains other smaller hearts and a piece of pirate gold! And that it is hanging out next to Joan Didion in her cool shades. Haven’t written for a long time — too overwhelmed by parenting and teaching and also a recent (and lovely) visit to lakeland around Waterloo, as part of their tribute to the book Lakeland by Alan Casey, this year’s One Book, One Community pick. I had a wonderful time; I got to visit Edna Staebler’s cottage and read with poet and recent Edna winner Jeffery Donaldson, plus spend time with Kim Jernigan (outgoing editor of The New Quarterly and one of my favourite people).
So — scattered sensibilities and now summertime brain. Plus this blogging thing is not a habit yet; I have moments where my thoughts cohere into brilliant combinations, really super sentences. Then something happens — say, a park visit, a phone call, a craving for coffee — and the sentence flees. I can see the back of it from my brain’s small window — a flash of eloquence, a well placed semi-colon rounding a faraway corner. Then, gone. So this is my attempt to rectify my delinquence in posting. It might be a bit of a ramble, so bear with me.
I’ve just finished reading Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion for my book club. I loved The Year of Magical Thinking but haven’t yet mustered the courage to crack Blue Nights (too sad for me in my current exhaustion and thin, thin skin) so was really looking forward to her earlier work (some of which I’d already read) and was not disappointed. I was definitely less compelled by the journalistic pieces, which often felt high brow tabloid-esque — but this, I know, is less a matter of quality than a function of the time and place they were written. I can (and do!) acknowledge how ground-breaking this work must have been when it first emerged. But I was more drawn to those personal pieces — really rigorous self-examinations — that felt like they existed outside of time. I wonder if this is because I can more easily trust a narrator passing judgment on herself than on others… One of my favourite essays was ‘On Going Home’, a perfect little riff on how it feels to revisit your childhood home as an adult, the weariness a person feels whilst wandering the rooms of her past. Here’s an example of how succinctly Didion captures moments that trouble a consciousness, that engender questions and also a kind of philosophical paralysis:
That I am trapped in this particular irrelevancy is never more apparent to me than when I am at home. Paralyzed by the neurotic lassitude engendered by meeting one’s past at every turn, around every corner, inside every cupboard, I go aimlessly from room to room. I decide to meet it head-on and clean out a drawer, and I spread the contents on the bed. A bathing suit I wore the summer I was seventeen. A letter of rejection from The Nation, and aerial photograph of the site for a shopping centre my father did not build in 1954. Three teacups hand-painted with cabbage roses and signed “E.M.,” my grandmother’s initials. There is no final solution for letters of rejection from The Nation and teacups hand-painted in 1900. Nor is there any answer to snapshots of one’s grandfather as a young man on skis, surveying around Donner Pass in the year 1910. I smooth out the snapshot and look into his face, and do and do not see my own. I close the drawer, and have another cup of coffee with my mother. We get along very well, veterans of a guerrilla war we never understood.
Also, I am reading next Wednesday at the Brockton Writing Series, at Full o’ Beans Coffee Shop, right here in my ‘hood. Would love to see you there!
I’ve written a post about Canadian books that have bolstered or challenged me as a mother. It’s up now at 49th Shelf. Go take a peek, but be warned, there are a lot of cool things to look at 0ver there — it won’t be a quick visit! An excerpt:
Two poems about breastfeeding, from two fantastic collections have been touchstones of sorts for me during those first beautiful – and, let’s face it, often marathon and mind-numbingly boring – breastfeeding sessions.
A Fortress of Chairs : Elisabeth Harvor’s poems are notable for their moody sense of the physical; I love how she finds sensuality in the everyday and explores the female body in a way that is both wanton and careful. The poem ‘Madame Abundance’ is a gorgeous, unsettling, sleepy meditation on what it means to nourish a baby – and how closely this action hews to the baby’s beginnings.
Joy is so Exhausting: This collection was a revelation to me. It’s a book whose tongue is out waggling at the world when not firmly planted in cheek. I adore its intelligent play and the way it worships words and excavates essential truths through mischievous humour. But in the context of this list, it is the prose poem ‘Nursery’ that shines. Structured around the back-and-forthing of a feed, and addressed to the narrator’s baby, the poem is an unpretentious meditation on what it means to be so essential, so connected, so literally and figuratively drained that your story becomes inextricably twined (and twinned) with your baby’s rhythms. And it’s funny!
Here’s a taste (81): Right: I’m no athlete but I could pitch for the La Leche League. Left: All soft skin similes would have nowhere to go but right back to you. Right: Imprint of my sweatshirt zipper across your chin, Frankenstein’s baby. Left: You thrash around in your sleep until one leg flaps flat and the other is packed with knees.
Read the rest here.