The time is out of joint – O cursed spite / Hamlet, Act 1
Where are the hands, secret smiles or looks, or smells, or sudden changes in the weather lighting a face, or a fantastic sneeze? I am grateful for Zoom and other smart devices that are helping us stay connected, but the experience is flat, for the most part.
My friend Lynn says we are living in a kind of void.
In the middle of this disconcerting time the pain of living asserts itself as another black man is murdered by police. Black. Lives. Matter. I deeply admire the people who choose to march, even as I question their sanity in putting their lives at risk during a pandemic.
They are outraged. I am outraged.
Police are kneeling before demonstrators.
We may be witnessing an epic moment that forces change in how we live together as a society.
I worry about an unstable president toppling our system. When I took my oath as a naturalized citizen of the United States, I renounced allegiance to foreign princes and potentates. We are a nation of laws, the beauty and strength of this nation.
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I wonder. Left to our own devices, do possibilities before us begin to narrow?
Jessica, a novelist and friend, describes walking with an acquaintance from the theatre world who suggests she explore writing a play. Jessica tells of feeling “a shift towards possibility.”
“A hallway opens in the brain,” is how she puts it, sparked by a live conversation with someone else.
We need new stimuli to shake things up is how I see it.
Art, another writer, says, “I don’t feel like diving into life, am scared to death really. Being in the writing zone is a great place to be during a pandemic—but some days I’m so distracted, I just do things that give me pleasure.”
Susie speaks about all the emotions surrounding us. “An explosion of pieces. And every minute it changes.” Susie’s back to work in New York City five days a week and describes Manhattan as “a stone city” without people.
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Yesterday I listened in on a conversation (via Zoom) between Julia Alvarez and Jaquira Díaz sponsored by Book Passage in Northern California. Julia Alvarez is royalty in Hispanic literature, author of, among other books, How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents,” and “In the Time of the Butterflies.” She spoke about her new novel, Afterlife. Jaquiria Díaz, novelist and journalist discussed her recent memoir, Ordinary Girls.
Díaz says to Alvarez, “You are my literary mother.” Julia responds with a smile, “and you are my literary babies.” Understanding the graciousness and rich meaning of this phrase gives me a lift.
Alvarez talks about the “circle of literature” and how readers go there to experience otherness. She speaks of it as a round table, and I feel invited, along with other readers, writers and artists of every kind.
If you survive experiences with an open heart, says Alvarez, there is an afterlife.
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The squirrels have taken over our lawns. And the birds are raucous. We have a zoo in my back yard just north of New York City.
New blooms are popping up—Irises are just passing their moment; the glaring fuschia azaleas are fully spent; the snowball shaped Rhododendron—pinks, lavender and purple—frame many of the houses in the neighborhood.
The trees are enormous and lush; their roots, ancient.
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I’d love to hear from you. Is there something in your life opening up in this time out of joint? Something intriguing? Something new?
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Spanish Phrases:
EL RESTO DE LA VIDA - Afterlife
Not sure “Black Lives Matter” can be translated adequately because the phrase in English delivers an entire history. It’s a cry, a demand, and should be heard in its English form.
TU LUCHA ES MÍA, expresses the sentiment, “Your struggle is my struggle,” and this is how I feel.