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There were a bunch of things l loved about The Dublin Seminar on New England and the Carribean this weekend. They included:

  • 250 year old wigs! And the little clay items that looked kind of like finger bones that they used as curlers!

  • A beautiful bureau with drawers that opened sideways in triangular wedges instead of pulling straight out as rectangles. I had never imagined such a thing.

  • Tasting chocolate from a colonial recipe. And salad burnett, which smells like cucumber.

  • Talking a little with Anne Farrow, one of the authors of Complicity: How the North Promoted, Prolonged and Profited from Slavery. The book is expanded from a Hartford Courant special report that the Connecticut Department of Education sent to every middle school and high school student in the state. I really liked her thoughtful, open presence, and the things she said about what she's working on now.

  • That doesn't begin to scratch the surface -- I learned a lot this weekend. I met an entomologist who is an educator around colonial history! That is very exciting, for the novel with all its bugs and spiders.

    PS Ever heard of Sylvester House on Shelter Island, Long Island, which was set up as a provisioning planation to support a sugar planation in Barbados in the mid 1600s? I never had -- it's one example of the ways that the economy of the colonial north was profoundly intertwined with and dependent on the slavery.
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  • Rode in the rowboat with on a sunny day on a lake surrounded by bright trees reflecting on the water, with my love and one of her dogs, who was too interested in ducks and kept positioning herself to get bumped on the chin with the oars.

  • Climbed the fire tower like an unexpectedly robust mountain goat (or so it seemed from the inside -- I've been scared in the past, but this time I didn't look down until I got to the top. and I went up pretty easily on my trike-seasoned legs, breathing hard, but filled with joy.) The hills unrolled until they went from leafy to blue. The dog, on the ground, looked worried. Perspective is good.

  • Picked gorgeous, perfect concord grapes at E's. They smelled amazing, and tasted tart, but the first cluster I reached for had wasps crawling all over the top of it, sucking out the juice and leaving dried up skins hanging on the vine. I took a breath, started picking elsewhere, and the smell got more intense as I picked, and more and more wasps came. I had to select very carefully so as not to disturb them. There were wasps crawling inside of grapes, visible through the dark skin. Wasps were going after the grapes in my bag, and were thick on the grass where grapes had fallen. If a few started buzzing me, I stopped, and moved. It was intense and meditative and the sun was out and the fruit stained my fingers. The sun was behind a really lush stand of kale in the garden, so that leaves were alight. I didn't get stung. Probably, it helped that, until I was told, I thought they were bees. I stopped picking when one of the dogs began bringing her ball to the wasp filled grass.

  • For a present, E. bought me a grey carhart jacket, which she wanted me to try on to be sure that it fit. It turns out that the daughter of the owner of Pat's Package, where she got the coat, is doing embroidery now, so she's getting a spider stitched on it for me in honor of the book I've been working on, Spider in a Tree. Which is, truly, a beautiful thing.

  • Special dinner, good talk. Plus, cake! Chocolate with cream cheese frosting.

  • There have been other splendid and companionable activities, but those were the events of the day.

Last night

Apr. 17th, 2007 04:39 pm
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I went to a beautiful event last night: Daniel Hall reading from his new book, Under Sleep. It is, I think, a book of elegies, and there's a poem under the link. I can't wait to read the whole thing.

Afterwards, I stood around just outside the door with my pal Judy, which turned out to be kind of a perfect place to talk and watch people spilling into the damp night.


Jun. 19th, 2006 10:56 am
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This is a story I emailed to some friends this morning, but I thought you, dear lj, might be interested, too.

This weekend, I was at a small conference about historical New England diaries, doing research for the novel I'm working on now. It was very wonderful in a lot of ways, including the passion (sometimes complete with blushing) in people's faces as they talked about the long-dead people whose diaries they were devoted to. As I came out of one session, I saw a small group of women clustered together, then noticed that one of them was very carefully holding something on a bed of white tissue paper. It turned out to be an ivory colored linen baby's shirt from 1799, and at least some of the women were textile historians, flipping up the lace collar and admiring the fine stitching.

I loved this, and it made me think of Carline from Venus of Chalk. So did the woman with very passionate opinions about the invention of pantyhose who is writing a history of clothes in the 1950s, and the one whose friend's mother had collected thousands of home economics pamphlets... The combination of experiencing that moment, and reading some Tennessee Williams reminded me that one of the things I drew on in writing the scene in Venus of Chalk in which Mel unfolds his bundle of cloth to show it to Carline in the shed was a similiar moment -- in a boat, yes? -- in Night of the Iguana. Tennessee Williams again.

Other influences on that moment include Thomas Hardy, who had a character very devoted to his beloved's glove, and John Ford, an artist I met in Missouri when my painter brother, Don Stinson, was very generously driving me over part of the route of the road trip in the novel, taking photos. John unwrapped a bundle of a very old -- again, ivory-colored -- corset that he had found wrapped around a glass kind of photo negative with the people's eyes blacked out that he had found in an attic in Ireland. And, you know, old white nylon slips. (My brother did a drawing once of me in one of my mother's. One version is on the cover of Belly Songs.) And all.
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Today and tomorrrow, doing research for the novel, I'm going to the Dublin Seminar in Deerfield to hear about old diaries. Sewing diaries. Commonplace books. Slave ship captain logs. A diary written in code by a Maine minister who was trying to develop something he called a "Philosophical Alphabet" to, the abstract says, "be used in creating a writing system for Native American indigenous languages" -- along with his own sixty coded diaries, he also kept word lists in "Penobscot Indian and a dictionary of Hebrew." Spiritual diaries. A midwife's journal. Travel diaries. Soldiers' diaries. Not unlike livejournal, it's dizzying to think about, but will, I hope, give off glints of what some people's lives were actually like.
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Swam last night in the lake at in the DAR state park, with my dear friend Sally. It was cool and soothing beyond belief. We felt acrobatic touching elbows, knees and fingertips without going under (not all at once, but with attention to the symmetry of it all). When I ducked under to the other side of the safety rope, she seriously wanted a whistle blown at me, but there was a lifeguard chair with no lifeguard at all, so I got off scott free. Eventually, she stuck just her feet in the air on the outlaw side of the rope, like the wild thing she is.

Immersion. The motion of water. Going in, all the way, getting deeper, the ordinary green ripples of the body of it, keeping us afloat. It was beautiful. She gave me a present of crayons to use in the bathtub, to continue the theme, and we stopped for an exquisite pulled pork sandwich (for me, not for vegetarian Sally) and ice cream on the way home.
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Sure enough, tonight's Hampshire Life, page 7, that's me in Sally Bellerose's story, "Pushups at Pulaski Park."
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I've been packing for the trip tomorrow. I sewed on a button and made sure that I have a subway map.

Here are some things that are giving me trouble:

  • I can't find my reading and computer glasses. I've lost them before within the past year. I misplace them all the time, but this time I've really searched and retraced my steps, and then doubled back again. I can't find them. I still hope to, somehow, though.

  • I thought I'd lost my debit and credit cards earlier this week, then found them in my wallet. After I'd already cancelled them both. I don't have them for my trip.

  • I heard today that I need more expensive dental work from a specialist.

  • Pain in my joints.

  • Aging, loss, money, mind, decay and mortality, in general and in specific.

Here are some things that are giving me joy:

  • A picture that my love took from upstairs of my parents and another dear friend playing 42 dominoes on a small square table with a slick red surface, perfect for shuffling. The garden up there, especially chives and parsley and early swiss chard.

  • Having seen an old fashioned, very serious, kindly, ethical clown in white slowly walk a tightrope upside down carrying a lit candlestick in its holder at the Cirque du Soleil in the company of my mother. And watching my father study maps and eighteenth century shoes and marbles and drink his first glass of wine in years in Montreal.

  • One friend poured himself into cleaning my living room when it had overwhelmed me. Another friend always listens to my problems, teases me, and does so much to keep my head on my shoulders and pleasure in my life. Together, they brought roses and a strawberry tart to dinner when my parents were here.

  • That my book is being honored with other strong work. That I'll be with friends who are travelling to celebrate that with me, bringing me fishnets, theater tickets, their risky, smart, rigorous work, and their radiant selves. And other friends will be there from nearer distances, with their own work being honored, or, many of them, having been honored in the past.

  • That there are so many reasons to keep doing new work, so many possibilities, reasons to jump in again.

  • That my dear friend Sally -- her own lingered and labored over, much needed and much loved novel not published yet -- who can't come to New York for the award ceremonies, gave me a talisman today for the trip: a ring that a boy gave her when he moved away. She's had it for forty years.

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I haven't been posting about my trip to New York and all because I've been so busy and because so much great stuff happened that I wanted to get it together to write about it in a way that would do it all justice. But time's passing, and things are too wild, so I'm going to do it scattershot, starting with:

One of the other readers of at the Lambda finalist reading was Morty Diamond, editor of FROM THE INSIDE OUT: Radical Gender Transformation, FTM and Beyond from Manic D Press. I first heard about Morty from [ profile] charlottecooper because of his website, My Year In Pink, documenting a performance art project of a year of wearing pink from head to toe. We had a lovely conversation, and I just noticed that he posted about it the next day, with emphasis on my "very good looking beard" (thanks, Morty), and solidarity with all those who don't fit the norms.

It was great meeting [ profile] daharyn, there through the urging of [ profile] misia!, too. More on the reading, which was rich and varied and moving, later.

It was also lovely to have dinner with [ profile] eleanor on Friday.

The fat girl flea was intense and primal -- so so so so many clothes. Mountains of clothes, heaped high, high, high on tables, many of them in the 3x-4x section by yours truly (among many others -- there were more than 40 volunteers.) So so so so many people shopping. We generated a lot of heat, and one of my favorite moments of the flea was when Leah, who was central to organizing the Bluestockings reading for Venus of Chalk last year, stood up to her full height, raised her mighty, ringing voice, waved a stack of brown paper towels over her head and called out, "If anyone needs a schvitz rag, someone will be coming around the room to offer one to you." Everyone heard it, but it took the very small, warm smile on Bertha's face where she was helping me pick out my dress for the Lambda Literary awards from amongst her gorgeous, sassy Size Queen fashions -- I so love that the dress that I'm wearing to honor the character of Carline was made by a fat lesbian who clearly sews with deep passion -- that is so right for the book -- it wasn't until I saw Bertha's smile that I realized what a beautiful, gracious, body loving gesture that announcement and those sweat rags were. I heard women talking appreciatively about it on the elevator, too, just before someone offered to buy the shirt I was wearing...

And [ profile] beatgoddess looked stunning at the Northampton Pride march on Sunday, leopard-print bra to match leopard-print hat and all. There was an article about the book-signing that Judy Frank and I, among others, did at the Pride&Joy booth -- very fun doing that with Judy -- much more fun than alone.
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Taxes are done.
Done is good.
I'm up in the hills, dogsitting.
Tennis balls age badly, but there's no accounting for the love of a dog. Hens can cluck with plaintive beauty. The sky is busting out the blue.
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[ profile] fattest wrote a beautiful post about Andrea Dworkin that I keep quoting in comments, for instance to say, "fattest can get to the tender, pulsing heart of difficult moments, people, bodies of work in such a radiant way. Moves me a lot."

[ profile] slit wrote something great, too.
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Of local interest:

Saturday is Free Comic Book Day at Modern Myths in Northampton. They're giving them away, and, since Neil Gaiman inspired me, I'm going to check it out. (Even though I associate comic books with a teenage boy vibe that makes me bashful in this odd middle-aged lady way. Still, venturing forth...)

Also, free: the new issue of The Women's Times, which is distributed throughout the Valley and the Berkshires, is out with a really nice review of Venus of Chalk by Julianna Waggoner, a standup comic. It's the longest so far, and it's a rave. First paragraph:

Meet Carline, fat lesbian feminist home economist. If this lineup of words baffles or intrigues you, read on! The narrator of Venus of Chalk, Carline is a seemingly incongruous but utterly believable mixture of personal quirks, passions, beliefs, and comforts. She is so unapologetically herself that she is fully alive in the pages of this book. She can be as prim as an elderly Victorian maid, as full of sensible, wholesome advice as Hints from Heloise, but she is also a potential emotional volcano, a sensualist whose joy in her abundant flesh and her sexuality is palpable and contagious.

*And,* my upcoming reading in Baltimore a week from today had just been cancelled. So, next week, it's:

Thur July 8
Washington DC
Lambda Rising Bookstore, 7 pm
1625 Connecticut Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20009
(202) 462-6969

Sun July 12
Giovanni's Room
5:30, Sunday
345 South 12th Street, Philadelphia, PA 19107 (at 12th & Pine Sts in Center City)
Tel: 215/923-2960

And Friday through Sunday, I'm going to be at the Nolose conference, on a panel Sunday afternoon with Katheen LeBesco, whose books include Revolting Bodies? The Struggle to Redefine Fat Identity and The Drag King Anthology, as well as Diana Lee.

I'm really looking forward to seeing everybody at Nolose! And if you're going to the conference, consider planning a little extra time to see the reading in Philadelphia -- it's going to be completely different material than what I do at Nolose.

If you know anybody in DC or Philadelphia, tell 'em to come!
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This interview of me by [ profile] charlottecooper is now up at Her questions are so juicy and good.

I'm just back from housesitting in the hilltowns, where a tiny spider slid in the air in front of my face on a strand of web that was the same color and consistency of my new silver hairs. The tough old goat blocked the door and leaned against my legs so I couldn't leave the barn until I rubbed her knobby back. The donkey ate grain from the palm of my hand and tried to get out of the fence by sticking his very big head through the gate. The chickens went in at night, as requested, mostly, even if they did lay only three eggs every day instead of four. The dog was devoted and the cats were polite. Potato bugs were numerous, and the smaller ones flew.

My initials are in the concrete of the hearth, along with others, including the paw prints of much-loved dogs who are no longer with us, with the date: 9/90. Hard to believe that it's been almost thirteen years since I lived there. The chickens live in the toolshed where I used to write. That's the reason it has electricity, although I didn't dig the ditch for the line.

the first

May. 6th, 2004 09:01 am
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The reading touched me in ways that are hard to describe.

It was so great to be coming down the sidewalk to the store, limping more than usual because I’d just sat on a bench and changed into my flimsy little slippers, and see [ profile] bearsir coming up the sidewalk, looking resplendent, tie and all. [ profile] bearsir had a bag of mysterious eggs for [ profile] beatgoddess and ze had been recently discussed at the store, we heard from Mark of Pride&Joy. We don’t know why. I bought a copy of Pinned Down By Pronouns, in which I know that [ profile] bearsir has at least one beautiful, moving poem.

[ profile] beatgoddess was there, of course – having drummed up maybe half the crowd, full of intensely engaged presence, nodded when I spoke about the importance of reflecting fat people as full sexual beings, made an announcement about the Flaunt It fat organizing that’s going on in the Valley right now, was one of the faces I liked looking at during the reading, is going to bring me some zines, bought all my books, two of Venus of Chalk,and a copy of The Boy Who Cried Fabulous by Lesléa Newman. Wow.

other ljers I know were there [ profile] papabearyg and [ profile] somechicksings -- lovely, lovely faces to see. Dang, I’m wanting to try to list everyone who came – about thirty people, Mark said – can’t do it, but the fabulous Kelly Link and Gavin Grant of Small Beer Press and great books and all told me to wear comfortable shoes to the BEA in Chicago – they are so cool and nice. Janet Aalfs, Northampton’s Poet Laureate, head sensei at Valley Women’s Martial Arts, and my old friend was there, and so was CJ, who helped us do a body painting banner for the Speak-Out Against Fat Hatred years back. The amazing P, the bus driver who donated some of his good qualities to the character of Tucker in the book – Tucker contains strong elements of other folks, too, and some difficult characteristics that don’t come from anybody I know, but were important to the character and the story. My downstairs neighbors. And all.

My beloved looked around and said, “Hey, pretty young crowd.” I said, “Yeah, it’s because of lj.” (I might have said, “because of [ profile] beatgoddess.”) Sally Bellerose, fabulous novelist and champion critiquer who is going to get her own post sometime soon because I’ve been SO itching to sing praises of her and her work, said “LJ? As opposed to LBJ?”

It was that kind of mix – the sixties were there, too.

Reading itself is so emotional for me. It’s vulnerable and a deep, deep pleasure; a contact in tender places, polished by language to surfaces that are okay to touch. I chose intense work – the prologue and the first chapter – and I could feel folks responding, moved, maybe a little scared at some points; surely, truly there. I love books so much I could burst. I love getting to offer this one. Oh, I wish you could have seen the gorgeous array of faces – some of you did, some of you were among them, along with the beautiful flowers that my parents thought to send from Texas, with that simple and huge gift of a card:

Congratulations on Venus of Chalk. Love, Mom and Dad.

So, a good start. Got to hustle to get ready for going to New Orleans tomorrrow, but wanted to say how it went. And hey, don’t miss the Fat Girl Flea in NYC this weekend! [ profile] bounce_n_jiggle says they’ve gotten great coverage in Timout New York!!!! (E., who was there last night and very sweetly introduced herself, is bringing clothes from Northampton! )
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1) You're a really great writer! How'd you get that way? How do you navigate combining identity politics with fiction writing?
Thank you. I've always been wildly ambitious for very specific things -- to write things that are unbearably beautiful in a nuanced, recognizable way, and to write things that linger and sing and matter to the people who read them. So, I want it, want it, want it. That's one thing.

Also, I have an older brother who is this terrific painter, so there was (and is) someone in my family who was an artist. That helped me see the kind of work it takes and to kind of scrape off some of the romantic glow, although I still romanticize the New York publishing world sometimes. I'm getting more and more over that as times goes on, though. So that has been good for practical information (for instance he told me about a six week artists residency in Banff that I went to when I was 19), and also for someone I know and trust to bounce things off.

I was in a writers' group for many years -- the Valley Lesbian Writers Group. Some of us published each other's chapbooks, we gave readings and produced readings for groups from other towns, raised money together to fund our projects, met every Tuesday night in eight week sessions to critique work. So important to me, so sustaining, to have serious, committed peer relationships, and I still meet every Wednesday with another writer who I met in the group -- think I've been meeting and exchanging work with her for fifteen years.

And then there's poetry in the bathroom -- reading poetry a lot and often and going back to poems, especially old, dense poems. There's nothing like it for keeping me awake to language. And also, just trying to tend towards writing, to make the best choice I can see to support my writing, at any given moment. To push and give up things to have time to work, and then use it as patiently and relentlessly as you can stand.

Identity politics and art -- oh, that's so hard. I mean, I remember a specific moment in the mid-eighties or so when I realized that I wanted to write about fat, about being fat, that that was full of danger and risk and things literally aching to be articulated for me, things that I was terrified of and drawn towards in equal measure -- really simple stuff, like trying to describe my own body, and running up against so many limitations in language about that. And I was meeting politically-aware fat, queer women for the first time -- I had just moved to Boston from Colorado -- so I felt as if there were going to be some folks who would want to read this work if I could do it -- it gave me a sense of urgency. Lots of gifts in those ways -- including, eventually and still, publishers for my novels from the women's press movement. At the same time, I just want to be read, to have these stories be acknowledged as human stories, of real value to a wide range of folks. Having to deal with narrow expectations and endless looping stereotypes about what my work is supposed to be or mean sometimes feels like trying to eat brick -- not sustaining, not easy on the teeth and gums. I have to keep pushing myself to negotiate these tensions with all of the grace and honor I can muster in any given moment, and it's worth it. But hard.

2) You live in Western Mass, right? How'd you end up there? What are the pros and cons of living where you do?
Yeah, I live in Northampton. I ended up here because of the twists and turns of my long, precious, private relationship.

I love it here. The pros are that I can stroll downtown and see the Triplets of Belleville like I did tonight (yay!). There are so many people I love here. There is a cemetery with 18th century graves across the street from me, and the Holyoke range are these stunning hills that stretch out along the horizon in a way that opens my heart. I like the Connecticut River a lot, too -- lots of available beauty. I do okay without car here, and live pretty cheaply (knock on wood.)
I have access to cities like NYC and Boston, and there is so much more happening here all of the time than there was in Littleton, the suburb of Denver where I grew up. When I got fat hate mail because of an article that I'd been invited to write for the Springfield paper, all I did was walk down the street, telling the people who asked me how I was what had just happened, and a few of the folks I ran into on that one walk (plus some of my beloved friends) formed a working committee that organized a speak-out against fat hatred, at a time when I was kind of reeling from it all. My town -- and lots of folks beyond it -- came through for me when I really needed it.

Cons include a kind of New England insularity or stiffness that can get wearing at times. Things can start feeling narrow or smug. I think fat girls are in general less widely appreciated here than we are in the west. I've sometimes envied the Bay area for energy and the seeming ability to generate really productive communities. Folks who move here from big cities often miss a lot of beautiful food or find people here unfriendly, unwelcoming. If I'm annoyed with someone, the odds are pretty good that I'll run into them. I want to swim regularly, and there's not a swimming pool that I have access to and can get to without a car.

3) What's your story of fleeing Texas?
Oh, I didn't flee. I was born in Amarillo, but left with my family when I was six months old. We moved to Wichita, then Denver. My grandparents lived in Texas, and we went to see them every summer. My brothers both spent the whole summer with my grandparents every year, helping work a very small ranch. My parents live there now, so I'm connected to Texas in lots of ways, but not really from there.

4) What do you do to make yourself focus on your work?
It helps me if I can go to a physical space away from other distractions -- no phone, no email. Sometimes I do some stretches, a few other starting rituals -- although those can get too long and be a distraction in itself. Reading something incredible makes me want to write. Reading stuff I had been working on the day before brings me back there -- gets harder as more time goes by. Don't do it so much any more because my arm aches when I type now, but I used to start sometimes with pages of lavish and specific praise for my own work -- it was pure encouragement, and it also helped me see just what I most wanted to do by that which thrilled me the most when I told myself that I was already doing it. Just starting and keeping going -- even if what comes out at first is unsatisfying -- that's a good one.

5) What kind of shoes do you like to wear?
Since I started having arthritis in my ankles and knees, I only wear one kind of shoes: black SAS walking shoes. Lots of padding on the soles, and they fit. I miss sandals. When I was a kid, my mother had two pairs of shoes that I remember with awe: clogs with white leather straps and polished wooden soles that at eight inches high: they made a thunderous noise against a hard floor, and changed the perspective of the wearer. Also, glittery orange stilettoes, with gloves to match.

Jette's rules:

1 - Leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2 - I will respond; I'll ask you five questions.
3 - You'll update your journal with my five questions, and your five answers.
4 - You'll include this explanation.
5 - You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.


Jan. 1st, 2004 10:07 am
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I went to my friend James' house last night, and he made a pizza with shrimp and peppers and sausage, two kinds of mozarella. We drank pink champagne and watched Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. Vivid! James, who has been working and travelling at a pace I can't even imagine, was getting drowsy on the couch, so I said good night and walked down the hill towards my house, limping as I do so much now, but inspired by a big, straggling gaggle of people, including a little boy being pushed in a carriage, still shouting a very game, "Hap-py New Year," to walk down King Street to sit on a curb in front of the hotel and watch people gathering in their little silver crowns and party hats, blowing whistles and beating drums.

It was a big crowd. Couples were doing preparatory kissing. Dads urged their kids to watch the civil war reenactment guys load a cannon. The firing of it was loud, and didn't feel like an innocent pleasure. There was a big screen flashing kind of dull pictures of our town, and a lit ball that rose slowly in the air at midnight. People cheered and hugged their families. Some kissing did go on. It wasn't too much as spectacles go, but it satisfied something in me to mark the moment with people from my town. Sometimes in big groups I start to feel either utterly alien or a profound sense of human connection, but neither happened for me last night. I didn't feel lonely, either, there without those I love -- although I do savor a heartfelt ritual kiss, the nuanced comfort of physical contact. What I was feeling was something quieter and unsurprising -- kind of a recognition of the desires I was seeing on people's faces -- to have a really good time, to live another year of life with vigor and meaning, to be close with others, to face (or drown) sins and fears, to see some sights and yell loud enough to be noted as present. I feel those things. People were looking ordinary, for all of their paper horns and the release of balloons. But I did, I counted and hooted, too.

May you have a beautiful and engaged year. I grew up with the rule that it's important to eat black-eyed peas on new year's day so that you have enough money during the coming year (not necessarily a lot -- just enough) , so you might want to consider that, too.


Dec. 26th, 2003 08:00 am
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I was sitting in my love's greenhouse, reading Stardust by Neil Gaiman in the sun. The book was a gift. The piles of old snow had shrunk, and we could see ground in the back. She turned on the turtle fountain, and it spouted water into the tin tub with the goldfish that are wintering over from the pond. She was reading a seed catalogue. My mother called. Her mother called. The donkey brayed once, big. Last winter's slugs are coming back. The german shepherd drank from the fish tub, and walked on the drooping December swiss chard. I only visit this house, with its gardens and animals. It was both complicated and simple, but warm enough to take off my thick courdoroy shirt and read in a t-shirt in the sun.


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May 2009



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