Woke up this
morning singing “The Lady Came from Baltimore” and then remembered how Joan
Baez got oodles of dyke points for not changing genders so that she was a woman
singing love lyrics to another woman. Then remembered how at the concert last
year she had lost her range and could no longer hit the high notes and maybe
should not have tried. I immediately felt this all too familiar wash of sadness
I’ve lately become accustomed to.
I think I get
it.
I’m having a
Late-Life Crisis. A late-life crisis – something that once brought pleasure now
opens the door to very much mixed emotions. What should be new becomes drenched in
nostalgic hues.
Last
Wednesday, I loaded the pickup and Rory and I set off for the GCLS Conference
in New Orleans. My predictable pre-trip anxiety never gave way to excitement;
instead it changed slowly to dread. It’s a long way from Chicago to New
Orleans: Illinois, Missouri, Memphis into Mississippi, Louisiana. The only
geology was a bit of road cut in southern Illinois. I like geology. I’d been
dreading bad weather and it happened in Mississippi with a downpour that cut
visibility to zero, but luckily it was short, just long enough to know how
dangerous it was.
When it got
dark I was too close to New Orleans not to keep going, but I got lost in the
city. Everyone I asked help from was exceptionally nice. I got to my motel and
I just wanted to be back in Chicago. Home. Realized that I was not the Gutsy
Old Lady. Slept. Woke up. Felt worse. Cried. Haven’t had morning crying in a
very long time. Called Sharon. Cried. She said that as long as I was there, I
should just go to the conference and see what it was like, eat something, and
then I could come home when I wanted.
TV said there
was a brain-eating amoeba loose in St. Bernard Parish. I thought: figures. [I was in nearby Jefferson
Parish. Parish in Louisiana is same as county.]
Took the bus
from stop in front of the Travelodge in Metairie across the Mississippi to the
bus stop across the parking lot from the Riverside Hilton – really easy. I was
still feeling very sad but not hurting sad. Found GCLS, passed out Press Kits,
met some people I have met or heard of on-line, was on time to go to 2-hour
discussion/presentation of the History of Lesbian Literature.
Here follows a
recap of what I thought was a valuable discussion:
The books were
separated by decade, beginning of course with Well of Loneliness. Sitting there
and thinking, I changed my usual assessment of Well. [This was me, not the
speakers.] I usually consider it an annoying, apologetic, whiney book with an
ending that sucks. But I remembered something an old friend once said re
another topic: any advertising is good advertising. Well of L made the
existence of two women together a reality and that was more important than any
of its window dressing.
Other books
were more familiar – Jane Rule is still my favorite [unless I remember someone
else] – and I got great suggestions to read. For example, I just finished Hood
by Emma Donoghue and if anyone else has read it please let me know because it
is very amazing, brilliant, coruscating.
Went back to
Travelodge, Rory had been perfect [as he was the whole trip], we watched back
to back to back episodes of Law & Order: SVU. It was very soothing and I
fell asleep. Woke up, turned off the tv and wrote a little mini-essay on a
question from the panel discussion:
What is the
future of lesbian literature? I side-stepped in order to say that since any
story is allegorical/symbolic the meaning of lesbian as symbol has changed.
Lesbian no longer automatically means reaching for an authentic identity;
challenging convention or mediocrity; daring; seeing love as a well-spring for
revolution, creativity, making meaning; for refusing to be tamed. A lesbian
character may still be any or all or other of these things, of course. I
thought that we probably don’t always know what we’re saying when we write.
Romance tames the socially disruptive impulses of sexuality. Horror solidifies
and makes manageable images of dread and fear. Fantasy reimagines the distant
horns of Elfland in the traditional fairy tale structure. Every story either
celebrates or challenges the major mythology of the culture. [By the way, does
any lesbian author these days dare write about the lesbian couple who kidnapped
Patty Hearst?]
I went back to
the Hilton next morning, turned in my mini-essay – it was nicely accepted –
cadged another sack lunch, went back to watch tv with Rory, slept, and left
early Saturday morning. Here is a song from the last time we crossed the
Mississippi at Cairo:
Me and Rory Boy
Are back in Illinois
Quoth the Raven: “Nevermore to roam
So far from Home.”
I will sing it
anytime on request.
Did I make up
Late Life Crisis or is it already out there? [Like a mid-Life Crisis it’s about not recognizing change and the
need to change.]
I’m not sorry
I went – not now that I’m home – but like Joan Baez I need to remember my range
has changed.
Gemstone: Black Tourmaline in Quartz; Garnet
