Intermediate between the divine and the mortal

Once upon a time, probably on a Saturday much like this one, a bunch of hungover guys sat around at one of their houses.  They'd planned to do more drinking again that evening, but through the mysterious and democratic dance of masculine decision-making, they somehow all agreed - without anyone looking lame - not to get wasted that night.  They'd just have a drop or two...for the taste.

No love can survive muteness

I have only ever truly fallen in love through (good) (honest) conversation.


I have only ever become truly heartbroken through its absence.

I think that's probably enough of an introduction to today's group of writings.

Never blame, whatever I wished it were

Oh reading these amazing words is making me want to write and write.  That's a good thing and not only because of Sunday's project.  I had the utter inexplicable honor of giving my very first reading (both poetry and a story excerpt) at the same podium in the same room on the same day for the same event as today's poet.  Marilyn Hacker.  It seems a different life, now.  It was.  I had won an award from the English department at the University of Kentucky and was invited to read; she was at the university for something Women's Studies-related and was invited to read at our awards ceremony.  She was just incredible.  She read her poems as if each word were a piece of exquisite candy in her mouth.  Afterwards, I approached her with shaking hands and she - miraculously, graciously - gifted me with the copy of her book she had read from (bookmarks and all)!  The inscription included the words "I know I'll be hearing about and reading you soon."

The one thing stronger than desire

My absolute favorite of all writers who write about love is Jeanette Winterson.

She writes so truly it's impossible to think she hasn't been in love.  And heartbroken.  And in love.

I think that's the most I can do to sum it up, so I'll just hand you over to these pearls.

The only gold

Today's love entry in preparation for Valentine's Day is going to be FULL of good words on love (and lyrics if you're ambitious enough to look them up), because last night I made VALENTINES!

I have not managed to do this since 2001, so yes it absolutely warrants all caps.

Having succeeded at last, I've decided to share with you a one-time-only very special offer of

The This Blue Singer Valentine-Making Tutorial!

That looks on tempests and is never shaken

If you were around for my Christmas blogging, you already know that I believe in holidays.  Yes, yes, they are - all of them! - blown out of all proportion by commercial greed.  And with the bombardment of commercials, candy, and plastic junk in drug stores, they become the measure by which your life is lonelier or emptier than you wish it was, much the same way that supermodels become the measure by which your body is flawed.  But at the core of any holiday is a motif of the human psyche worth celebrating.

And so, in the spirit of celebrating the epic riff of romantic love, I have decided to share some of my favorite words about love with you over the course of this week leading up to Valentine's Day.  My hope is that revisiting these favorites will inspire me to finish some piece of writing (poem? lyrics? prose essay?) on love to share with you on Sunday.

Introduction, check.  So without further ado...

Worcester Mag Interview Outtakes

In anticipation of our show in Worcester tonight, Worcester Magazine interviewed us for an write-up.  Understandably, the article was limited to the key information about us and the show.  


But for me, answering some of these questions was a good way to think through and articulate what it is like for me to be in This Blue Heaven, what it is we're doing.  


So here are some of my answers:

Wheels of life and death

My first writing class was taught by the truly wonderful Gurney Norman.  Someone in the class eventually asked where his name came from and he told the story of asking his (mentally ill) mother that same question.  Her answer:  Wheels of life and death.  Yes, as in, a hospital gurney.

Life intention, Part I

I was quite fresh out of college. I was sitting on a city bus in Madison, Wisconsin, on my way to my $11 an hour temp job processing mortgages at the credit union. The country was in its early economic reeling from 9/11 and mortgage interest rates were plummeting, so everyone was refinancing. Outside it was gray. The bus floor was slimy with grit. My co-riders always seemed to include someone in an inexpensive suit with a worn leather briefcase, someone large and gray-headed in a lopsided stocking cap, someone in a thin insulated plaid shirt looking tired, someone around my age with shinier shoes and tamer hair than mine. On this November day, I took out my journal and, in jagged script from the jolting of the bus ride, I wrote this:

A time to love

Nearly to work, walking in the shade and wind between MIT buildings. My cheeks and knees numb, the numbness creeping up my legs, across my temples. Cheerful orange berries on the vine starting to go black. Thoughts about winter, its wisdom: a time to die. When? And when to persevere? Another winter lesson. I must learn. What light can be found inside? Ahead, two kids standing a foot or two apart, talking. Not touching. Nodding, turning - she away, he in my direction. His chin tucked into his scarf, his grin unmistakable. Even from a distance. Did not see the ice raised from the sidewalk like fresh scars. Did not feel the cold. Grinned and grinned, eyes fixed blindly on his path, teeth to the cold wind as I passed by.