Fall 1997
I'm in the middle of three biographies right now: James McBride's The Color of Water, Jerry Oppenheimer's unauthorized bio of Martha Stewart, and a biography of Elizabeth Bishop that is half personal and half literary biography. Each is interesting in its own way, but I am gaining no clues, ideas, or inspirations in what to say here, or how to say it.
My last biography was acerbic at best, and pretty typical of my take on how much information I'm willing to produce on-line. The fact is, the brief rush of letting it all hang out on-line evaporated for me in 1994, even though every once in a while a search engine will try and point someone to that long-gone page.
A few months ago, I put together an animated Introduction to Julia as part of the Ubiquitous Choice version of my home page.
Every once in a while, I get electronic mail from someone dissatisfied with the amount of information I provide about myself - the word "hiding" is often used by the ones more literate than a tin can - as if I was obligated to share my life with everyone in all it's boring excruciating detail. It's not going to happen for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I like being an enigma.
You only get to see part of my world, and the rest is mine, to apportion out as I wish, to wrap it up in rice paper and hide it away, to share with friends and family, and to keep to myself, tucked away in a treasure box.
It is my life, one that exists under warm blankets on rainy spring days, windows wide open, a warm pot of tea on the table, a pile of books by the couch, and Billie or Ella or Nina or Cassandra on the stereo. It exists in the taxi rides to client offices and the late nights at work filled with bug reports, new buttons, bad haiku, and the hope I won't get bumped from my hotel again. It is by the kettlepot of thriving lilies on my patio, and on the farm I grew up in. It's in the local sushi joint, the hour-long drive to work (that covers 13 miles), and the anticipation of a good art museum or bookstore.
It always comes back to books for me. That Bishop bio, which is currently lying on my unmade bed in Boston, is unnerving in the way it skids back and forth between "Bishop" and "Elizabeth", between literary development and personal growth, between the poet and the person.
The unauthorized Stewart bio takes a harsh look at the image she has crafted of herself, and compares it to the shared memories of the people she grew up with, worked with, and knew - I find it amazing that so many people went on the record to discount or dispute her depictions of her life.
The Color of Water - which I highly recommend - pairs the stories of a black man and his white (jewish, immigrant, christian) mother together in alternating chapters. The reflections, aspects, and impacts of race, religion, and family are stunning, thought-provoking, and immensely moving.
Good and great reads (two of the three are being lent out as soon as I finish 'em), but that's still no help. I've said a lot, and as is typical for me, you've learned little. Welcome to my world.
