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That remembered fusion which opens everything, even minds
1. With one late-realized exception, Joanna Russ was not a writer who was very important to me. She was starting to be. I read How to Suppress Women's Writing (1983) last year, I think mostly on someone else's couch. My cousins gave me To Write Like a Woman (1995) for Christmas. I had read The Female Man (1975) years ago and not so much bounced as not clicked, but I found at the beginning of this month that she was responsible for a story I loved so much since high school that I re-read it every few years, "The Mystery of the Young Gentleman" in Isaac Asimov's Speculations (1982). It upset my mother greatly to hear that she'd suffered strokes. So I can write about her, because she was not so deeply wound into me that I'd have to tease her out first, like some other writers I have lost, but I am not glad she's gone. I know there are new ones, always, because the wings of the Angel of Death are full of eyes that every moment open or close, but I am tired of losing lights from the world.
2. Speaking of the lost: I seem to have provided a name for a frequently haunting collection of photographs, Marc Haumann's splintered lens. It's quoting from my poem "Martyrology," which forms the epilogue to Jeannelle Ferreira's A Verse from Babylon (2005). Consider this very far up the list of things I didn't expect to find through self-Googling. Some of the images even fit the poem.
3. I wish I could remember where I read it before, but I love this poem.
2. Speaking of the lost: I seem to have provided a name for a frequently haunting collection of photographs, Marc Haumann's splintered lens. It's quoting from my poem "Martyrology," which forms the epilogue to Jeannelle Ferreira's A Verse from Babylon (2005). Consider this very far up the list of things I didn't expect to find through self-Googling. Some of the images even fit the poem.
3. I wish I could remember where I read it before, but I love this poem.
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In the realms of happy coincidence, I am leaving this house in an hour to meet Sean in the pub and commit drinking.
I can ask him where the poem's appeared before. If I remember to.
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Well, tell him I loved it anyway!
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Last night, I had a dream in which you had moved to Finland with Chaac, the rain god. I can only hope you were disporting yourself immoderately, but all I got were letters and photos.
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"But he never sent me letters, he only sent me dirty Polaroids . . ."
Okay, this dream came to you; I am so making you write it.
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Yes. This.
2.
Congratulations on the name providing!
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Thank you! I was flattered; also, surprised.