I think the universe is currently out of whack and trying to right itself. I have received several unusual correspondence in the past few days-- “unusual” in the sense of being unexpected and out of the blue. As if people are thinking about me whom I don’t expect to be thinking about me. Not that I don’t think people think about me, but I don’t think people think about me more than they think about other things like, say, government rebate checks or what to have for breakfast. So, to be thought about and then have someone send a note or what not, it is surprising. Mostly surprising in a nice way.
This universe out of alignment theory suggests I am somehow responsible for realigning it. Of course, I go from being rather humble in saying I don’t expect people to think about me (especially people who don’t see me often-- or at all) to accepting responsibility for righting the universe. Ah, the dichotomy! Perhaps it’s only my universe that is out of order, hence the need for me to be the one to re-establish the balance. Yes, perhaps that is it. But I have heard others say their universe is out of order, too. (Hence, some of the correspondence.)
I have commented more than once in the past week that, whatever task I take on next, I would like to wear a cape. (Alison prefers sexy socks.) I don’t know why, but righting the universe (even if it’s only my universe) just seems to scream “cape.” Plus, people kind of have to believe I’m serious about saving the universe if I’m wearing a cape, right? (But not one of those floor-length ones I’ll trip over-- I prefer one of those mid-thigh capes that will flow behind me as I dash around.)
I’m cool with being the superhero of my own universe. How about you?
My three-month Tweet Cloud from my posts at Twitter. While I normally resist whatever the fad of the moment is (and for all I know, Twitter is already on its way out), I love the instant gratification of micro-blogging and social networking in 140 little characters. Satisfies my non-linear, non sequitur brain.
Are you on Twitter?
I woke up this morning with a blog post in mind that involves the 1980s rock bands who are still touring and drawing huge crowds. That thought sparked some fond memories I have of concerts at the awful, wonderful and 20 years long gone Hollywood Sportatorium. (Wikipedia really is fabulous, isn’t it?)
I met a cute boy named Donnie in the gravel parking lot of the Sportatorium after a Bryan Adams concert. We were each with our own friends, parked next to each other and waiting for the over-crowded lot to clear out of rowdy (and drunk-- it was Florida in the 80s) teenagers. We started talking… and ended up kissing while sitting on the hood of my brand new, midnight blue 1987 Camaro. He wanted my phone number but I wouldn’t give it to him (he had “bad boy” written all over him and I was a good girl), so he wrote his number on the back of a picture of the Lauderdale-by-the Sea pier. I worked in a photo lab at the time and was into photography and that was the only paper I had on me. I kept that picture forever (I’m pretty certain I still have it somewhere), but I never called Donnie and I never saw him again.
Memories don’t get any better than that, do they? Sigh...
Alas, my day was sidetracked by some nasty weather (the tornado hit west of me, I’m fine), a sinus headache and other, more pressing work.
I’ll blog more about the good old days one day this week.
Life - thin as a thread
Sometimes you’re lucky
Sometimes you’re better off deadYour first breath is taken and in to the world you are cast
You long for tomorrow while living each day as your lastWell I know what your heart desires
But you can’t take it with you
Into the fireNow you’ve done all you can
Your life’s at the crossroads
You watch as it slips through your hands...-- Bryan Adams, “Into the Fire”—1987
There are a couple of interesting conversations related to books going on in the blogosphere today. (I can’t write that not-really-a-word word without giggling.)
Accusations of racism are being directed at publisher Seal Press in connection with Amanda Marcotte’s It’s a Jungle Out There: The Feminist Survival Guide to Politically Inhospitable Environments. Rachel Kramer Bussel, responding to a comment left on Seal Press’s blog, shares her thoughts in White People and Racism.
In response to the interview Literary Fiction Gets Kinky with Melanie Abrams (author of Playing), Alison Tyler adds to the ongoing debate of literary writing vs. erotica writing (not to mention the ridiculous notion that a writer of bondage fiction should “look” a certain way) in Defensive “Sex Writer” Responds.
I haven’t read either book (and likely won’t get a chance to read the first edition of Marcotte’s book with the controversial illustrations), but I think the discussions surrounding them are important to all writers. It’s not just about the words on the page, it’s about how the writer’s (and publisher’s) intent will be measured and interpreted by the world at large.
Jay will be visiting Valparaiso, Chile soon and I have been doing some research. (Hi, Jay!) It is winter there, though it’s hard not to think of Chile as lush, green and humid. Chile… the homeland of one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda. Chile… home to Chilean wine!
Oh, how I wish I could go to Chile! Maybe next year…
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.~Pablo Neruda
I think tonight I will curl up with Pablo Neruda’s poetry (and a glass of Chilean wine?) and dream of Chile…
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
