I found a piece of paper either while cleaning or in a pocket somewhere. I don't even remember and this was just earlier today.
On one side it was clearly a bit of a Google Maps print out. It had "Oakdale Memorial Park" on it which could be about anywhere in the United States, but then I saw "Glendora Ave." and pieced it together that it was from playing bagpipes at a funeral in Southern California and I had printed out directions.
But the other side had "Joyce Carol Oates" written in MY handwriting. How very strange. I know that with many of the writers I have read I feel some sort of kinship with them and when someone talks about them I feel an ownership or possessor of a club membership as in "Hey, I read his book about flutes and oil and it was amazing." A coded way of saying "I am in the game here. I bagged that bad boy. I am a triumph. I know what is what." Or something like that. I hope you all feel the same. Am I alone here?
I think that is why it hard for me to give away books as I feel a need to display them on a shelf. I look upon them as animal heads on my walls: conquests, trophies, achievements. Even if I can't remember a darned thing, I know I "did" him or her at some point and that seems good enough.
But Joyce, Carol not James, I have never read. I know she has written a ton o books and some famous ones. There is no way she was not a major voice in American literature in the last century, but I have no connection with her. Kind of like the girl at school who was never in any of my classes, but I know who she is.
So why did I write her name down? And with no particular book title? The pressure to have read is so huge for me already. I have enough books on my shelf now to last me a good long while.
Joyce Carol Oates. Why are you in my life? What, if anything, am I supposed to know about you. What do you want from me?
1 comment:
She is prolific. Perhaps it was a reminder to be prolific. No pressure.
Maybe you heard something about her on NPR on the way to the gig?
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