And then there’s this. . .

Well, My Childhood Nickname Was “The Absentminded Professor”

Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com

Incidentally, there was also a picture of Jodie Foster; unfortunately, Blogspot doesn’t allow posting pictures. Alas.

Grief

It’s the little things that bring back grief. That sense of dislocation when you turn toward someone who isn’t there. Diane and I shared a passion for baseball, and she’s the first person I would call when something exciting was going on in the game. Now there’s nobody who understands or cares that Curt Schilling has more wins (21) than walks (20). (He’s with the Diamondbacks now, but I’ve been a fan of his elegantly controlled pitching since his days with the Phillies.) Nobody to call when Barry Bonds hits another home run. Nobody to share the excitement of last year’s World Series, the fan’s fantasy Series in which the home team always won and victory could be achieved in the bottom of the ninth.

Spring training is the hardest time — we always spent time on the phone together as spring training approached, and she died a couple of weeks before pitchers and catchers reported to camp.

She was beautiful, gangling, energetic, enthusiastic, alive. Right up to the moment when she was dead. There was no warning, just a phone call signaling the sudden end of the world.

Her death changed my whole life. A major factor in the end of my marriage was Billy’s response to my grief and loss. I knew I needed other people, that I couldn’t get what I needed from him, so I reached out and opened myself to friends. That opening led me, step by step, to see the flaws in the marriage and to realize they weren’t all my fault. Leaving wasn’t inevitable; I wanted to stay in the marriage, but on different terms. Billy wouldn’t or couldn’t make the changes I needed. So I left. If she hadn’t died. . . . there’s no way to know what would have happened, sooner or later.

This April I had a vivid dream in which Diane told me that even healers need to be healed. It was like being with her — real, solid, three-dimensional. Lisa has said to me that the only times now when her life feels normal is in that kind of dream. And she has also said that she’s (at one and the same time) an inconsolably grieving mother and a normal person who handles crises, deals with work, laughs and smiles. The grief isn’t as bad for me — how could it be? — but it underlies everything.

Aunt and niece doesn’t sound like an especially close relationship, but it is, it is. I’ll never have my own children, but I am a good, loving, exotic aunt to my sisters’ children. And I was just 14, almost 15, when Diane was born. She’s almost like a sister, and my sisters are very dear to me.

And all this because I read about Curt Schilling’s astonishing record this year, and realized that, now that Diane is gone, nobody else would care.

The high points of my weekend:

Dinner Sunday night with good friends I haven’t seen lately. Michele cooked a spectacular dish composed of chicken breasts, roasted red peppers, our homegrown tomatoes, mushroom caps, and artichoke hearts in a wine sauce, flavored with the basil we grew. For dessert, homemade carrot cake — and yes, we grew the carrots, one of which came out of the ground looking very obscene indeed. (Or, in Terry Pratchett’s terminology, it was “an amusingly shaped vegetable.”)

An interesting discussion at the church Adult Education Committee meeting about myth and story. One of the church members is getting her PhD in Mythological Studies, and she’s going to be presenting some ideas about Christianity and story at our adult-ed meetings.

Amazing news on the baseball front. My team is no longer rightfully known as “the cellar-dwelling Phillies.” These days we’re a full game ahead of the hapless Mets, whose own fans are urging them to strike. Of course, we’re also 20 games back of the Braves, but still.

Despite all that good news, it was a difficult weekend, marred by breathing difficulties, insomnia, nightmares. The links are clear; it’s hard to sleep comfortably when you’re in the midst of an asthma attack, and both the attacks and the medication make for nightmares. I had to leave church with an asthma attack. And family events conspired to keep me from writing one single word or even getting the office finished.

I’m hoping next weekend will be better. I have resolved to make no more time commitments, period, until after the writers’ conference.

Smoke (the new novel) seems to be coming to life within me. This morning I woke early, filled with a fresh awareness of it: hearing the voices, seeing the streets. It’s taking shape at last, and it’s considerably different from its ill-fated predecessor. (I did get two good short stories from Dry Spells, as well as a lot of practice. And maybe someday I’ll return to it.) I know the basic situation, and I’ve got an arresting, lyrical beginning for the book — which I may end up scrapping, simply because the voice doesn’t belong to any of the characters. Rats. On the other hand, it almost stands on its own as a poem or a very very short story.

Smoke presents several different problems from a technical POV. First, how do I build a readable book around unbearable tragedy? I have to lighten it somehow, and the new take I’ve found recently may help with that problem. Second, how do I make the changes in the church come to life on the page? The slow change over the years is not easy, but I’ve figured out a way to dramatize it. (I hope.)

I want to have a few good chapters to show at the writers’ conference. That means a lot of work this weekend, next weekend, Labor Day weekend, and the weekend after. Hmm, four weekends, maybe some time during the week, Labor Day itself. . . . maybe I could get 30 to 50 pages done. And/or a plot outline; though I rarely work with one in fiction, it might be a good idea this time, just because I’m working in little chunks rather than every day.

I’m having to learn an entirely new technique for writing — no, that’s unfair. When I was in grad school I had classes three days a week, wrote two days, and kept the weekends for Billy. That worked well enough, partly because I was spending time in an atmosphere where writing mattered. It is fair to say, though, that I’m having to learn how to balance living in a family, working full-time, and writing, and that’s not easy.

But worth doing.

OK, I’m blushing.

Rachel is far too kind. But she runs a great web site, and she’s tall and slender and gorgeous. She also has absolutely the coolest family ever. One of my great treasured memories from my first visit to North Carolina was visiting Rachel’s house with her mother Shelley, Ken (Shelley’s husband), Michele, and Paul. We were all sitting around the living room, talking casually and glancing at Rachel’s books. In a few minutes, we were all reading: a moment of silent community. I was looking at the short stories of James Morrow, and I have Rachel to thank for introducing me to his work. And also for telling me about Neil Gaiman’s blog, which led both to my current Gaiman obsession and to this blog.

Thanks, Rachel — I owe you a lot.

People You Didn’t Think Had Websites

Lizzie Borden. Includes links to the house, which is now a B&B, and various other Borden sites. The discussions on the message boards are impressively erudite, and you can download PDF files of trial transcripts and other sources. The humor section includes a number of jokes undecipherable except to other experts on the Fall River murders. This may be a mercy.

Jack the Ripper. Actually, he has dozens, but this is the most comprehensive and scholarly site, and it offers links to the Cream of the others. (That’s a Ripperologist pun.)

But you don’t have to be a spectacular killer or the center of a mystery to get a website long after you’ve died. Check these out:

Louisa May Alcott. This is the official Orchard House site, though God knows there are plenty of other Alcott sites. Orchard House, the Alcotts’ home and the place where Louisa May wrote most of her books, is a shrine for me. Going there brought tears to my eyes. If you can’t visit, watch the Winona Ryder version of Little Women. Much of it is filmed on location at Orchard House. And yes, I cried at the movie — in fact, I started crying even before the credits. Billy leant over and asked me, “Do you plan to cry all the way through this?” And of course the answer was yes. After the movie, he asked, “Did you deliberately model your life after hers?” To which the answer is a lot more complex, and it deserves its own entry here.

Johann Sebastian Bach. His various sons also have sites, including PDQ.

Cleopatra. This is a page on a site dedicated to all sorts of interesting royal personages. IMX, the more carefully you read about most royalty, the better you understand the French Revolution. Maybe not sympathize, certainly not excuse, but understand.

Joan of Arc. Actually, this is the Joan of Arc Society, but it offers a variety of useful material, including trial transcripts. There are also sites dedicated to her veneration and to the museum near where she was burned at the stake.

Lord Byron. Mad, bad, and dangerous to know — but so beautiful, and such a good writer. An even more complete site, but their server is Godawful slow. Do read the letters; they’re brilliant. Witty, honest, moving, sophisticated, and crackling with life. Also, an article by a woman who is dating his lordship. You heard me correctly. I don’t know if she also thinks she is his sister.

Here is the place to find psychological analyses of Byron — as well as Shelley, Christina Rossetti, Emily Dickinson, and several other major neurotic poets.

John Alden. Of course. He still speaks for himself.

UnNatural History can be intriguing, but even human life in California is nowhere near as diverse, bizarre, kinky, and amusing as genuine Natural History. My evidence is Dr. Tatiana’s Sex Advice to All Creation, a hilarious and strange book about the evolutionary biology of sex. Dr. Tatiana is Olivia Judson, a PhD in biological sciences from Oxford, no less. Her book is filled with various creatures writing in for advice on their sexual problems. It’s the kind of book where you laugh, you groan, you read it aloud to anyone who will listen.

And if you thought people had interesting sex lives — just wait until you hear about slime molds.

I got e-mail today from my friend Jim Gladstone, author extraordinaire. The Big Book of Misunderstanding was one of the best books I read last year — fresh, funny, and alive. He sells exceedingly cool T-shirts and also has great taste in Chinese restaurants. Plus good advice for travelers to Memphis, Tennessee.

If you’ve ever moved to a strange place, particularly if you’ve transported thousands of books thousands of miles, read this.

“Some comment is required on Rep. Bob Barr’s unfortunate gun accident. Barr, a member of the board of the National Rifle Association, plugged a glass door when somebody handed him a loaded antique .38 at a campaign fund-raiser. Further evidence that there is a God.”

This from Molly Ivins, one of the funniest, shrewdest columnists we have. Thank God for mouthy Texas women.