MYSTERY OR MAGIC

“A long time ago, when wishes came true” is my favorite opening in the Grimms’ collected fairy tales. Much better than the formulaic “once upon a time.”

As I look back at my own “long time ago,” the “wishes came true” part of the proposition easily has me wondering just what I really wished for all along, before landing here? What specifics would have spurred the leap from fantasy into reality and shortened what often seemed an all too long and painful journey?

After all these years, I broached the subject with a longtime correspondent and there we were, reflecting on that point way back when our lives might have taken a different path. Meaning why didn’t we take the leap and marry?

“Well, you essentially believe in mystery while I expect magic,” she said, a reaction that long left me wondering about the difference.

Yes, I could almost hear her peals of delighted surprise at unanticipated happy turns and realized that reflected her idea of magic.

And yes, I suppose I could be labeled as a mystic, in part from all my years of meditation, with its sense of an underlying unity of the universe. (For more on that, go to my As Light Is Sown presentations.) As a mystic, I am instead seeking harmony and rightness that accompanies, well, I’ll just call it the Holy Way for now. Essentially, nothing happens by sheer accident; we just know so little of what’s going on behind the scenes when a miracle occurs.

In contrast, as the commentaries on the fairy tales insist, when good things happen in their stories, it’s a one-time deal, never to be replicated. Except that the good folks live happily ever after.

That’s why I’ll still take the mystical over the magical. I’ll take a miracle any day, while magic can be tricky.

HISTORIC UPDATES, CONTINUED

As I said at the time, so long ago now …

No changes on the love-life front. Maybe I really don’t have the time or energy these days to invest there. Just too much going on with the writing and publishing – plus the Quaker responsibilities as clerk of Quarterly Meeting (which is something like being bishop of New Hampshire congregations would be in some other denominations).

Besides, am trying to be careful this time not to connect with my previous patterns – a radar that seems to pick up on emotionally troubled romantic partners or seems to draw them to me. Important thing is to keep myself nourished and centered. There are, however some encouraging new friendships, including those arising from a local poetry group (the “Prozac Poets” meeting at Barnes and Noble) and a weekly open reading in Concord. Will be the “featured poet” at another, which raises its own set of concerns: do I basically read from one extended series or period, or do I instead select a sampler from the past thirty years? Any suggestions?

Am leaning, at this point, toward opening with a Hindu chant that’s supposed to be efficacious at warding off tigers and poisonous snakes and closing with a wonderful quote by William Penn, a piece that wasn’t written as a poem but certainly works as one and points toward both Walt Whitman and Greenleaf Whittier. After the opening chant, I would say a few words about poetry arising in the sacred, which includes sexuality and even the more successful sacrilegious efforts, then go into a long piece, “Flight With Sun and Moon,” from the early 1970s. After that, I anticipate a grouping of five micropoems to change the pace, then maybe three sections from a longpoem, Recovering Olympus, followed by five more micropoems, leading into three to five pieces from one of my more recent “Police Blotter Love Poems” series. I would then end my own work with a five-page piece from Maine, addressed to my favorite poet and the influence he’s exerted throughout my own moves during the past three decades. Guess I’m just thinking aloud here. Sound reasonable? Like all good plans, it’s subject to a slew of revisions!

Yipes, it’s time to run already. Another Tuesday, the last day of my “weekend,” and the sun’s just set (well, it is late afternoon) – need to get something to eat before running off to a poetry reading. Some good stuff being done around here, as well as the usual dross.

Am looking forward to all of those pictures you’re promising in your always scintillating ‘zine. And no, no way are you what they accuse. You’re a poet, remember? But you already know that.

Oh boy indeed!

Aquarius Tracker

DEAREST MADAMOISELLE, LOVELY AND EVER CHARMING

As I said at the time: Hey! Somewhere along the line, the Postal Service lost a letter, it seems. At any rate, I’ve been wondering about you, how you’re doing, whether you decided to run off to New Mexico or Arizona and start having babies one-two-three or whatever. Even whether I’d said something that offended terribly. (So much for self-esteem, right?)

At least, thanks to the wonders of Computer Era (or, too often, Computer Error) I be able (that, I’m told, reflects Chicago schooling regarding the conjugation of the verb to be) to resurrect my last letter to you. Is this the one you responded to, meaning I never got your last letter? Or did you not get this one? And the poems in the new Indigo, um,  are they the two you didn’t know you had or, surprise, are they the ones I sent in July? Mysteries, mysteries!

At any rate, I’m anxiously awaiting the new issue – and all the news – and maybe even the missing letter!

On this end, to update from what’s there: Am still waiting for the chapbook … the usual unexpected delays and complications; in this case, a near-fatal blood clot suffered by the editor’s wife.

As you can see, I’m in the midst of a major computer conversion – from a fourteen-year-old XPC II system and nearly 300 five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy disks (Word Perfect 4.1) to a 6.4-gigabyte Pentium II Windows 98 Word 97 unit with both HP scanner and inkjet printer. It’s taking much longer than I anticipated; am still not on-line (one step at a time!) It’s like household he-man repairs and remodeling: everything takes three times longer than you believe it will, should, or can. Just ask your Italian father: if he’s anything like my ex-father-in-law, the one I miss greatly, these jobs are just that. (One of Sam’s great lessons to me, by the way: be sure to leave something undone for tomorrow!)

So I built, from kits, a new credenza and hutch, plus a “utilities cart,” projects that proved the timing theory: the credenza that took the salesman two hours to assemble took me six or eight, in part because the instructions are written in three languages but proficient, from what I could determine, in none. Ditto for the printed illustrations. Then, when the electronic goodies came, there were all the boxes to unpack and the new wiring to figure out (and whatever you need for the big rebates seems to get lost with the trash). Guess I’ll never purchase again where there’s a rebate involved! Just give me the discount, now! To say nothing of the software to install, nearly wrecking my Windows 98 in the process. (A Sunday morning phone call to Hewlett Packard nearly averted that!) At least much of the software installation is so much easier than it was a decade ago! My computer guru, the one I’ve “hired” for a bottle of Jim Beam or Jack Daniels, has been a big help, dropping on me a stack of magazines that could be used instead as the coffee table; his real challenge is in rigging the system that will allow me to convert and transfer a dozen or so novels and tons of other writings from the old system to the new. All this must seem foreign to you, who appear so much at ease with stylish desktop publishing! (So when did you first delve into cyberland – and desktop and all of the great touches you display?)

Hmm, that’s interesting, the date on the page break and all. One more thing to figure out, eventually – modifying these damn templates to my own style! (Spent a couple of hours a few weeks ago trying to do that, only to finally learn I couldn’t do it – see now there are other ways to go about it, thanks to a $40 book that tells me what Microsoft’s can’t.)

Did get away for a week in a small cabin in the Maine woods – no heat and no glass in the windows, but there was a fireplace as well as sliding shutters across the screened windows: good thing, too, with the nights getting down to freezing! Snuggled in with a stack of novels to read, learned to canoe solo on the five-mile-long lake and winding river, and even drafted some decent poetry.

*   *   *

How long ago all that seems! Well, it does come from a few years before I acquired the barn and everything that’s gone with it … including a great wife and family. Which makes it ancient history, indeed, even without the computer updates.

FROM BISHOP SPONG TO LIGHTHOUSES

Continuing this month’s survey of Books Read, here are a few more entries:

  • John Shelby Spong: Liberating the Gospels: Reading the Bible with Jewish Eyes. Or, as the paperback cover also proclaims, “Freeing Jesus from 2,000 years of misunderstanding.” Here the then-Episcopal Bishop of Newark, New Jersey, advances scholarship that argues the Synoptic gospels and Book of Acts were intended to be read aloud in the synagogue and early church as parallel texts to the day’s Pentateuch (Torah) portion. Rather than being accurate biography or history, then, he contends that they were essentially a midrash voicing something of the intensity of the early “followers of the Way,” theologically but not factually true. Crucial to his rational is an awareness of the major Hebrew holidays of the time, and placing the Christian teachings within them – that is, also within a lunar calendar. Thus, instead of a chronological history of Jesus’ working with the disciples over a three-year period, or more, the Synoptic texts compress their presentation into a one-year framework. In the final sections of the book he deconstructs the Nativity and the Resurrection, as well as many of the teachings attributed to Jesus, yet leaves a strong case that what was being demanded was an experience of the Spirit/Holy Spirit, rather than Jesus.
  • Patricia Lynn Reilly: A God Who Looks Like Me: Discovering a Woman-Affirming Spirituality. Essentially a self-help workbook for women to work through, either individually or in “circles of support,” this 1995 publication is now a generation old and no doubt surpassed by more comprehensive volumes. It does included reference to El Shaddai as “breast” even though it’s often translated in its other meaning, “high places.” She also includes a list of alternative images to use in place of masculine terms, including Womb of Compassion, Nurturer, Seeker of the Lost, Source of All Life, Faithful Mother, Shekhinah, Healer, Sophia, Queen of Heaven, Gathering Mother Hen, and so on. She makes a strong case for the negative outlook on female functions, including birth, as unclean, and curiously the lack of an infant rite equal to circumcision. She also makes a claim for the decreased value of woman as they age. I like her suggestion to record reactions to her exercises using one’s non-dominant hand, and wonder if this might help me get deeper into my own repressed layers.
  • Harold Loukes: Friends and Their Children. This 1958 British publication comes from another era as it attempts to steer a third way between those parents who would insist on a dogmatic training for their children and those who would offer them none. He does follow the cycle through infancy, the first years at school, adolescence, and so on. I wonder if any of it would have helped, back when.
  • Eugene Ehrlich and David H. Scott: Mene, Mene, Tekel: A lively lexicon of words and phrases from the Bible. Despite William Safire’s praises in the New York Times, I find little reason to continue keeping it on my bookshelves, not when I have Strong’s concordance.
  • Jessamyn West: Except for Me and Thee. A charming novel of a Midwestern Quaker couple and their family roughly covering the years 1810-1875. Some of it I would question against the cultural history, but for the most part, I think she gets it right. In some ways, it dovetails in nicely with MFK Fisher’s outsider look at small-town California Friends only decades later.
  • Sarah C. Gleason: Kindly Lights: A History of the Lighthouses of Southern New England. While my focus is on the lighthouses of New Hampshire, Maine, and Cape Cod, this volume goes far beyond its Southern New England catalog. Gleason provides a detailed history of the origins of the American lighthouse system, including a timeless examination of the true costs of a bureaucracy that for too long concentrated on a lowest-bidder mentality.
  • Jared Diamond: Why Is Sex Fun? The Evolution of Human Sexuality. Despite the title, this is a rather pedestrian dynamic based on the need for childcare within the tribe.

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FROM MOTHERS IN FLIGHT TO THE GREAT HEREAFTER

Continuing this month’s survey of Books Read, here are a few more entries:

  • Rosie Jackson: Mothers Who Leave. Published in 1994, this consideration of British and American mothers attempts to balance the predominant view that mothers who leave their children in a divorce are somehow abnormal, morally deficient, irresponsible, or self-centered. Drawn more from literature and pop culture (especially Hollywood) than from social science research.
  • Dawn Powell: The Wicked Pavilion. World War II-era novel set on a star-crossed romance that keeps returning to a “musty” French restaurant in Manhattan. New Yorker-flavored style, with a good dose of dry humor. Also, her novel, The Golden Spur, set in and around a Greenwich Village tavern.
  • Thomas P. Slaughter: The Beautiful Soul of John Woolman, Apostle of Abolition. Not read closely, but rather as a quick overview. Am not impressed with the author’s interpretation of Quaker faith as such, especially in its origins, but his focus, understanding, and specialty are naturally on Woolman per se.
  • Sarah Dunant:  The Birth of Venus, A historical novel set in Florence at the end of the Medici reign and during the time of the fundamentalist monk Savonarola, at the end of the 1400s. An interesting counterpoint of papal opposition within the Catholic church in Italy a few years before Luther and Calvin to the north. Told from the point of view of a woman who is married off to a homosexual. Wikipedia confirms the prevalence of homosexuality in Florence and the destructiveness of the Bonfire of the Vanities, and explains that the widespread outbreak of pox, otherwise known as the French Pox, was syphilis.
  • Charles Olson: Selected Writings. A revisit to essays and poems, especially those related to Gloucester. Olson’s debt to Pound is quite obvious, though I find little memorable here. Still, a palate-cleanser. Curiously, his MAXIMUS poems are a blend of prose poems and lyrical.
  • The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 2 (1934-1939 (unfinished on my return to the office). Apparently, I read part of this long ago, though I remember nothing. This time, I’m fascinated by her working with Otto Rank and her descriptions of his personality. Of course, much of the masculine/feminine debate is very dated. I would very much like to hear from the other sides of her subjects, since she is so confident in her opinions.
  • Quaker Life, March/April 2009. Wonderful issue focusing on Friends and Their Pastors, including a piece by me.
  • F. Scott Fitzgerald:  The Great Gatsby. An enjoyable read, obvious if one considers the longevity of the work. But also quite flawed, first in overall structure, and second in some erratic shift in point of view: some scenes are elaborately described even though there was no way for the first-person narrator to have knowledge of them, much less detailed dialogue. In the end, I have little interior sense of any of the characters, apart from their gyrations in regard to wealth – including the narrator, and am left with little sympathy for them or their condition. I can understand the initial attraction of the big lavish parties, but that quickly becomes a screen for the underlying vacuity.
  • Henry Miller: Nexus (The Rosy Crucifixion). Not really a novel, this work is more a series of confessions and speculations. The subjects and style are something I once would have perceived as profound and worthy of pursuit, though they now strike me more as pretentious, confused babbling. The Christmas section, however, starting on page 72 is a refreshing alternative to the usual happy-happy sort of holiday memories one is usually served. This, like the Nin, is another example of writers and other artists living in the poverty of a self-proclaimed higher existence of Their Art; in this case, aspiring to The Novel.
  • Vanity Fair, April 2009. Issue devoted to the Vanishing American Dream, hedge fund collapses, Bernie Madoff’s victims, and so on. Not one of the most compelling collections, despite its timeliness.
  • Stack of Columbia Journalism Review issues, 2007-2008. Sherry’s gift to my reading pile … but all the pieces on the changing field and the desperation afloat left no encouragement. In addition, so much simply felt dated, even at a year’s remove.
  • Henry Miller: Tropic of Cancer. Along with Joyce, puts Kerouac in perspective. Alas.
  • Andre Dubus, Finding a Girl in America and Selected Stories. A master.
  • Russell Banks, The Sweet Hereafter. Yes, another master.

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FROM SHERHERAZADE TO THE PARTHENON AND COYOTE

Continuing this month’s survey of Books Read, here are a few more entries:

  • Fatema Mernissi: Scheherazade Goes West: Different Cultures, Different Harems. Puzzled by the smirks of Western men whenever she mentioned harem, this Moroccan Islamic feminist launches into an attempt to understand the differences between Islamic male-female dynamics and those of the West. She draws heavily on the stories of Scheherazade and painting, noting what is emphasized East or West. Along the way, she presents interesting insights into Muslim life, including the “secret” side of the feminine, often rural, traditions where forbidden teachings continue. I find this a provocative book, good for launching further discourse. Where I think she misses the mark is in her failure to comprehend the harem as pure fantasy, one that may be more about power and wealth – and pure leisure – than about sex. In the West, multiple sexual partners (other than prostitutes) was essentially limited to the upper (ruling) class – a mistress, at that, rather than a panoply; sex itself, according to Roman Catholic teaching, was not for pleasure, unlike that of the harem fantasy (Mernissi does write of the pleasures of the public bath, noting how often bathing was proscribed through European history); furthermore, for many Western men, having sufficient freedom of time and wealth to indulge in a harem would be foreign to their thinking – work before pleasure. Not until Hugh Hefner do we see anything remotely resembling the harem fantasy, and he and his empire have always been somewhat outside propriety. I sense that major difficulties arise in the fallacy of trying to compare a powerful male with a harem to an average male anywhere; this is paralleled by trying to celebrate the heroic wife among many, rather than the average wife trapped within the system. More telling, as she reflects, would be the insights of artists’ wives, knowing their husbands were painting nudes.
  • Barbara Jane Reyes: Poeta en San Francisco (poems). A blazing collection of mostly prose-poems by a Filipina-American, often seemingly free-association, often multilingual, often Catholic-anti-Catholic (blasphemous within faith?), often addressing the aftermath of war, racism, sexism from ghetto streets, often full of blame for the other. All the same, full of juice. Passionate. Inflammatory, priming me with a desire to write, as well.
  • Ellen Cooney: Gum Ball Hill. This novel attempts to recreate the tensions in a Maine community just outside York during leading up to and through the Revolutionary War. It has had me looking up some of the York and Dover experiences during the King Phillip’s War period, and considering this place as frontier through a difficult century.
  • Damon D. Hickey: The Cross of Plainness: A Century of Conservative Quakerism in North Carolina (issue of The Southern Friend, 2005). Excellent presentation of Wilburite Quakerism focused on a single Meeting, now laid down. Solid quotations and material for future writing.
  • Robert Bowie Johnson Jr.: The Parthenon Code. Examining the friezes of the Parthenon, the author argues that they present the other side of the Genesis story – one focusing on the Serpent and the line of Cain/Kain, having the Creator pushed out of the scene entirely, and showing Noah/Nereus being overcome by the human will of Poseidon and his kin. The work of an impassioned amateur, lacking in footnoted documentation, is nonetheless provocative and intriguing. I wish he had acknowledged that the Genesis stories themselves are drawn from widespread Middle Eastern mythology, which means that the Greeks might also be showing themselves overcoming Babylonian might, rather than a small and insignificant Hebrew philosophy per se. On the other hand, if the Greek account celebrates the victorious and conquering human, the Jewish account also seems to side with the underdog! Our God favors the powerless!
  • Grandfather Duncan Sings-Alone: Sprinting Backwards to God. Part Coyote tales, mostly memoir, an easy-to-read and often humorous account of a Cherokee half-breed’s spiritual journey from preacher kid to Disciples of Christ pastor to Native healer and pipe-carrier. Candid insights into the failure of his four marriages. (His father was Scottish background.) Includes some embarrassingly purple verse by his current wife. Helpful glossary.
  • Howard Norman: The Northern Lights. In this, his inaugural novel, Norman follows a young boy through his trials in the Canadian North and finally with his mother running The Northern Lights movie house in Toronto. Some interesting insights along the way, but not altogether satisfying from my perspective. The structure, for instance, seems flimsy and the conclusions don’t really fit … too much deus et machina for me.
  • John Canaday: Invisible World. Poems drawn from the year he spent in Jordan, tutoring the children of King Hussein and Queen Noor. I wouldn’t have known, however, from the poems themselves his reason for living in an Islamic nation, only that these reflect his attempt to understand the place and culture.
  • Melissa Jayne Fawcett: Medicine Trail: The Life and Lessons of Gladys Tantaquidgeon. A small, beautiful volume that includes telling blocks of quotations from the Mohegan matriarch responsible for bringing many of her people’s old ways into the twenty-first century. As the author notes, less is known about the New England Indians than about those anywhere else – and this is a valuable piece in that gaping puzzle.

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MEMORY LANE OF DESIRES

As I said at the time …

Looking back through the yearbooks, I’m surprised to admit how few of the girls were as sexy or mysterious or genuinely attractive as they’ve remained in my memory. This is not what I would have thought earlier.

I can also wonder why I didn’t move on KK or why nothing connected with MM, despite the youth pastor’s encouragement. What were the astrological factors? Anything else I might have noticed later?

Of course, most of us guys, well, that was another matter. Some things never change.

THE CRAVING AND RELEASE

As I said at the time: It’s power. As well as status.

There, we’ve said it. The crux of the matter. Power is always dangerous and needs to be curbed, or at least channeled. Dynamite. Gasoline. (No smoking around the pumps, ma’am.) Nuclear fission. Story of all Greek mythology, for that matter. With sex, it’s something that everyone – or nearly everything – has, in theory at least. In reality, well, we could start with one great mystery: why we are attracted to certain people but not to others. And then there are all of those mysteries involving male/female differences, as well as the daughter-father bond and the son-mother bond and the natural growth of struggling into freedom – the classic Oedipus Construction and its parallel Electra Construction. And I want what you won’t give me. Rape. Or don’t want your advances. Frigid. Or what you now threaten to take away from me. Story in the newspaper every day. Bang, bang. Especially when the balancing mechanisms break down – the commonly shared values, the commitment, spirituality, whatever. Or the out and out growing apart.

Even the religious foundations of sexuality and marriage itself can be quite different. In the Catholic and Episcopal mode, it’s procreation, pure and simple. You’ve seen the papal edicts. The best man and groomsmen in the ceremony as a vestige of forcibly seizing the bride. The ring itself as an emblem of possession. Which is why we have neither in traditional Quaker ceremony. In contrast, in the Quaker and Congregationalist/Unitarian strands, marriage embodies the sense of helpmeet or soul-mate in which Adam and Eve were created as suitable opposites for each other: deep companionship, with full equality and mutuality (no, eating the fruit is not Eve’s or the Serpent’s fault, no matter how Paul of Tarsus interprets the matter – it’s the beginning of human awareness and freedom, actually; and if God hadn’t wanted them to eat it, he wouldn’t have put it in the middle of the garden in the first place or told them, in the second, not to touch it!). (A point one of my fifteen-year-old Religious Education students argued convincingly. Kids can see through some of this stuff.) And then there’s the Song of Songs, or Song of Solomon; look up the Marcia Falk translation and explanatory notes – passion, overriding all convention.

As a sister (younger? older?) asks, as we turn the phrase, “Are you a slut?” I suppose a lot of it has to do with one’s perspective – long-term, or short? Immediate gratification, or something in which every experience builds into a sustained, shared history? Put another way, will the Other still be there when your raw physical beauty isn’t? When your health has you in a wheelchair and needing the committed partner? Or when the care of children requires joint sacrifices? The fear, of course, is that once the pleasure’s gone, so is that other person. And we both know that we have down days – bad hair or lack of it, whatever – often for long periods. Period.

My last girlfriend also used to accuse me of having been promiscuous. Of course, when you add up the numbers and divide them over the years – plus all the time in between – it really becomes rather monkish. As I said, it’s perspective. And what the others’ values come out as.

Conflicts, conflicts.

If others express their fears about your adventures, there are many reasons. For one thing, your feelings are on the line. Often your deepest feelings and desires and needs. Out of which can too easily arise the How On Earth Did It Come To This you write of. The epithet of “bastard” itself. The protectiveness of keeping predators away from Mine. Hence, all of the taboos. It’s not always “moralizing,” especially if you watch the matrons at poolside closely. And the rules aren’t always written by a patriarchy, but by the matriarchs. They know a good thing when they have it. Queen Bee, Queen Bee, one per hive. One of the most difficult things about trying to date women my own age, in fact, was that most of the available ones are so bitter. There’s no lightness in their dancing, either – and I link those two. Maybe it was that the ones who can make a relationship function successfully were in faithful marriages.

* * *

How much of this, fortunately, now stands as ancient history!

GODDESSES OF AN EARLIER ERA

As I said at the time, the attempt to gain a clearer picture of my high school and college years took an interesting turn as I considered (let’s call her) AA, and an attraction that never went beyond a few words and our shared hours in Mrs. Hopkins’ horrid English class. AA was, I believe, the one who knew what a choral descant was, perhaps indicating she was Episcopalian. What I remember – and the yearbooks confirm – was that she was squeaky clean, of the pure skin and bright eyes variety. Even Ivory Soap spotless.

I would have also added “virginal,” though I could speculate there was a hidden passionate side – she was, after all, on the elite marching squad, and ambitious enough to hold several offices. Some of the portraits hint at some mischief or playfulness behind those serious eyes and smile. Yet she did not show up on the homecoming or prom courts. I seem to sense she may have already had a serious boyfriend.

Now I find, as AB, a nurse, possibly divorced and looking nothing like the girl I remember, she’s still in that locale and even contributed to a Republican Senate campaign. It’s amazing what you can discover online, if you find the right thread, even without coughing over any money.

This has me thinking again of the missed opportunities and how, maybe, they were essential to my eventual pathway.

I never spoke much to her or to BB or to CC because I felt they were way out of my league. Even DD, whom I did ask out a couple of times, to no avail – usually too late. Now I see how our youth pastor’s comments about another may have actually been an attempt to bridge something on her part, but again I felt all too incompetent and impoverished and minor-minor league constricted. (Yet, as a golden boy in my mother’s eyes, only beauty would do as my consort, at least in my own expectations.)

The swirl around EE, of course, was a situation in which one person finds himself or herself unwitting having a small but pivotal role in a much larger drama. I wonder what I’d say to her now. (That would be an interesting letter to compose: note to myself.) My mother’s values, my own ambitions, my conflicted religious situation, and the raging hormones all tangled.

Suppose I had somehow found myself going steady with any of them? (Much less the twins or FF or GG – which brings up the younger woman syndrome.) Would I have felt more content, to continue studies at Wright State, work at the Journal Herald, settle in Dayton forever? Would I have been Republican, Methodist, or … ? How small that all looks now!

On the other hand, the hippie movement was around the corner. HH (now there, along with JJ, were older women – a grade or two ahead – I could have gone for!) did move, according to the Web, in that direction.

At the time, I thought the girls all possessed a secret wisdom far beyond what we wretched guys – well, for the most part: a few seemed to be on a privileged inside track – could muster. As if they would only show mercy! As if that was what I was reading in their coy glances. Heavens!

MORE ANCIENT HISTORY

As I said at the time, there I was, actually, admitting that about now, whenever that was, it would be nice to find a big chunk of time to work on some new poems. Hadn’t done diddly since my week in the Maine woods, back in October, years ago. Had a big project lined up, the first draft already keyboarded – but other projects intruded, including a book-length prose manuscript I tried launching with a holistic Certified Public Accountant. Most of that volume was already written, but getting her input sometimes felt like pulling teeth. Figured that one would occupy my “writing” space through May. And then it went nowhere.

Was also trying to master the new computer means that my reading time was spent mostly with those fat manuals – good thing they’re indexed! Wished I could get those damn AOL logos off the bottom of my screen, too. I shifted over to Mindspring – for now, at least. And one more thing to master, in time, this e-mail process! (Well, I was already doing my checks from the terminal, and had a lot of the genealogy input. Transferring old 5.25-inch floppies in WordPerfect 4.1 was now possible, thanks to a drive a friend installed a month ago, but very time-consuming – a lot of garbage had to be removed with S&R, a big job when you’re handling drafts of novels! I expected to be nibbling away at that well into the autumn.)

As I was telling a certain woman in the midst of all this:

OK, you do have me reading the celebratory Poppy Z., at least in snippets as I find time. A month or so ago, I turned to one of the Goths in our poetry circle and mentioned there was an author a ‘zine editor-friend of mine out in Chicago raves  about, and somehow one piped up, “Oh! Poppy Z. Brite!”- so there you have it! (My friend, by the way, is in N’Orleans for Fat Tuesday and some recovery time thereafter – but I sense it’s part of a much bigger story I shan’t touch on just now, except that it looks like all the nasty fallout.) What impresses me most with PZB right now is how masterfully she handles dialogue – especially with seemingly inarticulate people. How evocative it is! (Envy time.) Since you have been smitten by N’Orleans (as, somehow, has a colleague at the office – again, another story), I must recommend an astounding novel by John Gregory Brown, Decorations in a Ruined Cemetery, which kept me up most of one frigid night in that cabin in Maine – as logs roared and sizzled in the fireplace – a box of Kleenex by the finale is advised, too – a real vortex of history, place, and those realms of caring for others that sometimes can never be spoken directly. By the way, did you catch the Streetcar Named Desire opera telecast on Public Television? Andre Previn’s music somehow intensifies an already sizzling text, and the casting would do Hollywood great. Less than a week after it was aired, I found myself spending an afternoon with a Cajun welder and his wife, whom my companion for the day had told me was involved with another man. Talk about things that cannot be spoken directly!

At any rate, much of your prose delves into matters that are generally not spoken directly – especially by a woman and by one who is still at an age when they are fresh! Matters of sexuality immediately stir up conflicts – lust versus love, power balances and reversals within relationship, passions/desires/dreams, promises and betrayals, egos, appetites, aging, vulnerabilities, layers of intimacy or distancing, pleasure/pain dimensions, possessiveness/freedom, giving/taking, nurturing/devouring. And that’s before we even touch on money, time, labor, wealth matters – the stuff that triggers most divorces – or questions of child-rearing or larger family interactions.

My, how much we had stirred up at the time! And how much lingers …