in case you ever find yourself in need of a hat like this — for drumming, for an exorcism – i can help you make one. can’t wait to try it in the kiddie size next.
yesterday, béla began preschool, on the same part-time schedule as his sister.
this means that there are now eighteen to twenty-two hours in my week that are entirely childfree. (in addition to those are ten to fifteen hours of nap time a week — not nearly as productive for me, being at my personal ebb-time, but i’ll take anything.)
thus ends my bizarre military-like stint as a full-time, stay-at-home mom.
i’m hoping things get a lot more productive for me here. signs show that they are going to be.
i spent the first hour of my first day of freedom crying in a starbucks, feeling totally lost. then, i pulled it together: went to the vietnamese shopping center, stalked a few monks, bought coolie hats for the kids, and had a vietnamese iced coffee (with sweetened condensed milk!) and a bahn mi, and did some writing.
after claudia’s recent premiere dance recital, i was friending her teacher ellie on facebook when i saw that ellie had recently collaborated with the poet CA conrad. i had mentioned conrad in passing to ben, just a few months ago, when he had appeared on the cover of both the philadelphia weekly and the philadelphia city paper. i told ben that i had known conrad only peripherally but that he had written me what was one of the best letters about my short stories i had ever gotten.
could i actually still have that letter? i wondered. could it have stuck with me, through almost twenty years — four apartments, a house, two marriages, three dogs, four cats, and two kids? i could not remember the last time i had seen it, and i am better at getting rid of things than i am keeping them.
but it was in the very first box i looked in.
part of the reason this letter stands out so much in my mind — aside from it’s fantasticness — is that i shared it with the one writing “mentor” i ever had (who shall remain nameless). his reaction was one of sour-grapes envy — he made fun of the letter, suggesting repeatedly that it was written by someone whose enthusiasm — passion — branded him a poor judge.
this mentor of mine — with whom i spent a lot of one-on-one time — liked to pretend (lacking in actual, relevant grist for humor, i suppose) that he thought the letter to be written by someone named “Caconrad”, as though it were all one word. it became the word that my mentor pulled out when he wanted to tease me. Cack-on-rad. Caconrad, the loose cannon, who had made the fatal mistake of being open about his approval. letting your feelings seep out like that — all written out like a poem, no less — this was no way to look cool and collected. and who was worth anything who wasn’t cool and collected? credential-less, not even suggesting networking or plugging himself in any way — who could this CA conrad have thought he was? look, he wrote that thing on a fucking typewriter!
even at that young age — i was no more than twenty-two when i got this letter — i knew this was far from the way i wanted to see the world, and i knew even more emphatically that i could not afford to see my writing life that way. i could not afford to feel that way. i could not worry about tamping down the desire to write love letters to writers i loved, or to anyone i loved, any more than i could afford the more destructive impulses that come with writing. i could not, and never did, look down on anyone who also refused to smother those impulses.
again, i never had much of a personal relationship with conrad, other than to say hello to him at times. i remember meeting him for the very first time, discussing russell edson, i think, while dining at the commissary on sansom street — that’s a good long time ago! but it gives me pleasure to see his work come to fruition and to read about him.
when i found this letter today, i gave it to ben, to read, and to put in our safe — with our children’s adoption papers, and a lot of other things that can only continue to matter to us.
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Posted in amber
it was 1998 or so that lisa and i became friends online. both short story writers, we began trading manuscripts for workshopping almost immediately. while very different writers, with very different goals, reading her work, and having her read mine, has always been enjoyable, inspiring, useful, and — that magic word — reliable.
we have been able to support one another in our writing goals, adventures, and experiments for over a decade now. we have collaborated on literary endeavors, including night rally and paysans sans peur presses’ very first book. she has always been my go-to for illustration work for any project, whether related to writing or to our personal lives (she designed the adoption announcements for both of our children, and the t-shirts for claudia’s second birthday party), not just because she always comes through (which she does), but because she’s my favorite illustrator ever.
she also gives some of the greatest gifts ever. a pre-publication hardback copy, more than half a century old, from one of my favorite authors, is only one in an impressive list.
many of our projects have evolved and changed, but we are still writing short stories and we still keep in touch. her novella amazing purpose is one i have read at least ten times as it has gone through many changes, and honestly, i’d set it in lead type and print it here at home if she’d let me (and if she’d come help a little). but it’s particularly fascinating to me that lisa’s work life has lead her down a path of education, and specifically, african-american education in a very specific, and inspiring, niche: the gullah culture of the carolina lowcountries.
i’ve threatened for the last two years that if she keeps sending me all this interesting information about black history in her town, she runs the risk of having a certain charming black child come visit her for some living history lessons every summer for the NEXT decade or so. but, we are now working together on a black history exchange between public schools in our areas, and i will certainly post more about that here when it happens.
lisa’s current good news is twofold: the upcoming publication of her short story In 1762 Oryza Outruns Fate, Completes a Task, and Bestows a Gift in the australian journal etchings. an artist’s edition of thirteen of what lisa is calling “the american edition” of Oryza is also available for perusal or purchase at ARTworks in beaufort town center, beaufort, south carolina, as part of the clay/paper/thread gallery exhibit through july 10, 2010.
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Posted in african-american, amber
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