Restful Sunday. Beautiful day with the sunlight flitting in and out between the grey clouds and the garden slowly coming to life little by little after the darkness of the days finally beginning to slide slowly away from us. Still, it seems that it, the garden, is more hesitant this year than ever before to put on its new clothes and delight us with its finery. I wait and watch like someone longing for change. I go each day, sometimes twice, down to the vegetable patch to measure the growth from the tiny seeds I planted. Weeks ago, it seems to me, when I finally ran the trowel along the yield of clay to begin again. Yes, there is growth but it appears to be so miniscule, so vulnerable, so at the whim of the stubborn clime and its obvious sense of confusion. Even the cuckoo call is not as constant and if I do hear the call I count myself fortunate. I stop whatever I am doing and wait and then it ceases and does not recur until the next day...The pheasants prove to be more adept at adjusting as they stalk the long grass in the field beyond the fence. Call out their mating like bold, strutting, feathered beauties. Lust.
I had a busy week. Well not too busy but I got to go hear Edna O'Brien and Sharon Olds at the Cuirt Literary Festival in Galway. Edna O'Brien was stunning. She was promoting her latest book, a memoir, Country Girl. At eighty two just as interesting as when I read her book, The Country Girls all those years ago. She talked about her writing. How the vision kept her going, how she wished she had a trainer as boxers do, someone to order her up whenever she fell down. She said that reading was essential to writing and that in the 'fallow' periods she read. She also reads before she writes. 'Something to stimulate', something to get her going.
Sharon Olds was wonderful too. I bought her book 'Stags Leap' the night before and read it straight through and then to hear her read about her divorce, her children, breasts, the hymen and everything else with such poetic style and grace caused me to cry in the theatre. That must be amazing, to have someone so touched by your words that you bring them to a quiet sobbing state. I met her afterwards in the lobby, with H. I wanted her to sign the book. I told her how her words moved me and shook her hand. She was gracious.
So that was my literary encounter this week. I am also reading The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde. Wonderful. I cannot put it down. It lures me in with each page. I woke up this morning and grabbed it off the side dresser and began to read. H came up with a big mug of steaming coffee and I was in something close to heaven. He is reading Ron Rash, Nothing gold can stay....I don't know anything about Ron Rash but I believe he's been compared to Raymond Carver. Now we're talking. I read Carver all the time. You cannot beat Carver. Carver feeds me. There will never be another Carver.