And Thanks to Willie Nelson, ...

 I have a good foot to start on. Is it not Willie Nelson who sang, "To all the girls I've loved before.."?

I'm sure it was. And some famous person who I can now quote said something really lovely the other day on Facebook, the other day in a dead guy kind of way: 

What a nice quote, especially when you are the type who loves so much it could be assumed you don't really love at all. I may be one of those terribly passionate and sensuous types, or else I am very sentimental and sensitive, if not just a big hearted softy. 

Whichever the case is, I am in a sort of lunar phase, shy of being full, that calls our attention in a dark sky to how close the fullness of the moon is, but still with shadow. A faded, lacking, promise of what might be. It will shrink or it will actualize. But I am not the moon. I am a loveless lady with too much regard for poetic description, and now I am going to talk about writers I have fallen for. 

But first, let me be honest. I almost never am. Or am always. Who really knows? Does anybody really know for sure, even about themselves? How they really feel!? Maybe it is the dishonest who know best what honesty is! But this much is true. I lost my job. I worked there for a year and got sick and they were unforgiving and I couldn't forgive them for that. So now, whimpering over a cup of coffee, grasping at small animals and google searching "Why am I craving affection" I am reminded of all of my heart's pangs, and it's a little scary in there. So as not to die of a broken heart, I will fantasize about great loves and be of a generous nature here, spilling all of myself to a nobody audience.

My great literary loves, because I will never meet anyone. Especially not sitting here in my apartment on Saturday night with my grown children. Although we are having a nice pot roast tonight.

I started to write a list of the top 10 writers I love, but since we are talking real love, like fantasies of sweet romance and marriage and what not, I am creepily bearing all here, I have but four.

First of all, I absolutely fell head over heals in love with Chekov last year. I then was distracted by my life and unable to read and felt a little like one of those teens in a movie I never liked the first time I had seen it done (modernity and it's tropes) who must give up something they love to do what their parents think is best for them. Although whatever was injuring me was for sure not a good thing, but you know, life itself requires attention. Ah, but this masterful genius! His work is like looking at paintings by a wonderful artist who is purely visible, self and taste and with all the little curls and swatches in place. I loved every line, every idea, every title, every work. I loved him.

Okay, and then this morning I was reading a book about generosity and then it hit me, this guy's a real genius, the real thing. He said something so great, what was it. Gosh darn it, brb, gotta look it up, great stuff, brilliant...

He said, ech hem, he said, "Do not judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you sew."

And of course it really is brilliant, and perfect in so many ways, I mean I have found that to be an exceptionally good bit of advice, I think I wrote a blog on that myself. Anyway, that's not why I love him. 

So, the guys name is Robert Louis Stevenson. I have a book I bought of his poems that when I was a young woman and no one dared to contest me, I had on my coffee table. It is a soft cover book with pretty, old fashioned paintings of children and children's poetry that was written by Mr. Stevenson. I have not looked at in maybe 6 or 8 years. Brb, again.

Moving right along, I never cared for poetry. Rarely, if ever. My mother wrote poetry and she did it effortlessly and in a way which, perhaps by DNA, in my opinion, was crafted perfectly, so as to give me a taste for poetry that is simple. And deciphering things is not one of my favorite things and definitely not a talent of mine. 

Since becoming what some might mistake as educated, I have learned that poetry is something that the human race has prided itself in since antiquity. That is a compounding insult to my intellect. Not only do I have taste for my own cooking but I find out that I have no idea what it means to eat a good meal. But since I sort of talk in a way that pretends to be lofty and make derogatory jokes against (pronounced ə-gAYNst) myself, I am not sure where I fall on the spectrum, so to speak. Moving right along, I fell in love with Robert Louis Stevenson. 

His poetry failed me. And he has written things everyone knows and I am convinced I will never read. But one night last summer while I was feeling terribly exasperated and fell to bed sick with exhaustion, a day much like the past couple of days, I cracked open one of my grandmothers books she gave me. It is a red book of classics, there is a series with at least 25 books, maybe 50. I have a Tolstoy I am working on as well. My problem is that I am terribly A.D.D. Lest I forget this is about Stevenson, I will say his story opened up a side of himself that revealed how lovely he is. Poetry and fame set aside, and Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is one of the more clever books ever written, I enjoyed his novella about a missing Count in such a way as to make the first reading of the book one of the more pleasant experiences of my life in the times of Covid. 

Anyone who does not have a single blemish after Covid should get it. (that was pms talking)

His was the voice of the servant, his master was the kind and unappreciated gentleman, his distaste for women is the honorable position of one who loves rightly. His declaration was in contrast with his sympathy. He was just great.

And then there's Voltaire. I loved him these last 4 or 5 years, I'm getting over it a bit now. I have discovered in myself the servant position, and Voltaire the brilliant, social, brave and rich, handsome and clever sort. He would think I was a fool. But he is a good-looking fella, and I sure do love that he could summarize things in such a way for little urchins like me to understand them. Here is my fan pic:

And last Ray Bradbury, who is the person who they should model teen novels after, as the best friend of the protagonist. Surely no one else in human history would be more fun to walk down the street with, or watch a movie with, or discuss anything other than politics with!

I cannot express the feelings genius people evoke, something like inspiration. And I have written about that too, divine!

So there, Love, passionate, romantic, idol, and friendship. 

All the best!

Mary