THE PRIVATE LIFE

The photo is of Kay and Alan at the 4 Swallows celebrating a Valentine's Day dinner.

Earlier, the man in the photo presented the woman in the photo with a big bouquet of flowers on Valentine's Day. Each time she attempted to place the flowers in a vase filled with water, he called out, "Not yet, not yet!" and diverted her attention elsewhere. Finally, he took her by the shoulders, led her into the kitchen and said, "NOW!" she poured water into the vase, placed the flowers inside, and noticed a small white package, wrapped in cellophane. She fished around in the water and lifted the package out. Inside the package was a ring, gold, silver, with a pearl in the center. An engagement ring. The man led the woman to the sofa, where he lowered himself to one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. This was the third time he had made this request and the third time she had answered yes. The process of reaching a consensus, in this case, was irrefutably elegant. She loves the man. She loves the ring. She will have the same Port Townsend designer create her fiance a ring for his finger. A wedding date is not yet known.

I have been greedily devouring Joyce Carol Oate's new book "A Widow's Story", the passionate memoir of the death of Oate's husband of forty-seven years. Her husband, Ray Smith, editor of THE ONTARIO REVIEW, died the same year Jim died, in 2008. Unlike Joan Didion's memoir of her writer husband's death, Oate's book is singed with emotion: anger, passion, disorientation. Married once again, Oates has written the truest book I have read (I think I must have read them all)about a widow's experience. Grief is a stress reaction which takes one for a ride. There is no formula for grief, no one way, no two ways, no ten or eleven ways, to "go about" it. People have ideas about it, that is true. But ideas are artifices and ignorance is bliss, always an excuse; and even one who has gone through enormous grief, has only (only!!!) gone through one's own. I do appreciate Oate's book immensely, though. Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Smith.

This past Saturday, Alan and I took Aleister to Seattle's Science Center. Getting off the ferry, Aleister ran up to Alan and pointed out something, calling him "Grandpa". Alan, who cares deeply about Aleister, was immensely moved. "Look, Grandpa!" Aleister said. Later, Aleister said to me, "Grandpa Jim walks up in Heaven and Grandpa Alan walks here on Earth." Coming back on the ferry, Aleister said to me, "They are so much alike, Grandpa Jim and Alan! They are both funny and smart and they play around but they are serious, too, and they both care about me! And they look so much alike!" He went silent for a moment or two and then added, "...well, they both have beards."

Notice that, for Aleister, both men exist in present tense. Notice that both men exist. The psyche, said Jung, does not know the difference between the imaginative and the real. And the "real". And the real.

Give my regards to Broadway.