9 PM — Self is sitting on a stone bench outside, in total darkness, the only light the glow of her laptop. It was quiet in her room but the minute she stepped outside, self was suddenly surrounded by a universe of sounds: crickets chirping, frogs croaking, birds, lizards. R said there was a blue gecko in his studio, and self wished she could have seen it. He also said there were blue-black snakes slithering around, but self thinks he was probably just teasing.
Self is out here because of Grace Paley. She was sitting in her bedroom just before dinner when she heard on the radio that Grace Paley had died. And it gave her a start and she said a little prayer. The cause was breast cancer. Then Robert Pinsky came on and said he admired how Grace was able to transform the material of life into art, such was her power. And self learned that Grace had taught at Sarah Lawrence, which is where another of self’s favorite writers, Mary Morris, teaches.
B’s eyes were swollen at dinner and she told self that she and Grace were friends. She’d even visited several times at Grace’s home. When self told her about Robert Pinsky’s comments, B bridled and said, “Why him? There are so many other people who could have better addressed the fullness of that woman’s life.” Then she said it was probably because they had to get someone quickly.
Self doesn’t say this to B but, when she has taught Grace Paley in her Women’s Lit classes, the women complain that they can’t understand her, why does she insist on mixing in politics with the everyday? They don’t seem to get her humor, either. They have actually called the narrator of “Wants” whine-y, which leaves self aghast.
Anyhoo, self stumbled several times before reaching the bench, since the nearest structure to the house, the gazebo, isn’t lit this evening. It must be only self who finds the darkness slightly intimidating, since just now a silent figure passed, in total darkness, walking swiftly. It was so dark she couldn’t even make out who it was. In the distance she could make out two little figures walking on the path to the studio. But they were very far away. From the depths of the bushes behind the gazebo self heard voices, and it was D and G, chatting. They said hello, and when self asked if they minded if she sat somewhere close to them, she just needed to blog and she couldn’t get any connection from inside the house, they excused themselves and went elsewhere. Which is quite all right, since they were probably talking about private things.
Grace Paley was the first woman writer, after Estrella Alfon and Carmen Guerrero-Nakpil, who self identified with. She discovered Grace when she was still new to the Stanford Creative Writing Program, a time when she can honestly say she was the greenest yahoo who ever attempted to make a go of this thing called “writing”. Now, at a distance of many years, self can say with perfect equanimity that she understands why her American classmates snickered at some of her remarks (such as her adoration of Hemingway). But those times were painful. And it filled her with joy and purpose to learn that there existed a woman who wrote a book only once every ten years and didn’t care, who achieved fame almost in spite of herself. There was something so stubborn-seeming, so Zen about this.
Grace, you will be greatly missed.
Kanlaon 