I am Marge Piercy -- reading her life is truly reading my own life except she "made it" through and I get bogged down. I love her poetry ( TO BE OF USE has tarot poems among others of value)- I loved her book "women on the edge of time". Go feminists -read her life here and then buy SLEEPING WITH CATS

"Marge Piercy is a literary icon...Novelist, poet, social activist. Here is the story of her life."—Alice Hoffman
"[An] utterly lovely memoir...a passionate reflection on sleeping with cats—and sleeping around."—The New York Times Book Review

"A touching and engaging memoir of a life boldly crammed with poetry and novels, lovers and friends, radical politics and feminism, and the cats who've shared it all. Because where would we be without cats?" —Katha Pollitt

"Piercy's Sleeping With Cats is the memoir of a woman who has refused to live her life according to the expectations of family, friends, lovers or literary followers. To the conventional-minded, some periods of her life may seem a tortuous path. But the streetwise girl who emerged from poverty has become one of America's most respected authors.

She calls herself "a stray cat who has finally found a good home," and cats wander in and out of the memoir. Growing up in working-class Detroit, the child who became a writer began as a reclusive dreamer. She writes, "I found the space under the front porch mysterious, sandy and hung with spiderwebs. I loved the front porch, screened in by my father, with its creaky glider Icould lie on and stare up at the boards of the ceiling. That was one piece of furniture my cat was allowed on, so we curled up there together."

"The cats are the constant. Marge Piercy, feminist, activist and author of 15 novels, as many volumes of poetry and scores of essays, has rarely been without the solace of at least one feline companion. The cats, firmly placed in the emotional center of her memoir, "Sleeping With Cats," do double duty, opening the doors to reflections on love,creativity and mortality. Piercy begins in the present in the Cape Cod home she's shared with her husband, writer Ira Wood, for the last 20 years.

As she excavates memories, she keeps returning to this cat-filled house with its exuberant vegetable and flower gardens. These domestic interludes provide respite from the political and emotional tumult of a life packed with an ever-shifting cast of husbands, lovers and friends. At age 65, Piercy has seized this moment to "reflect, reexamine, make amends and corrections--a sort of High Holidays of the soul in which I judge what I've done and left undone."

Piercy's poetry has mined these emotions, and her fiction has grappled with social and political currents, but here she takes a much more deliberate path, attempting to illuminate the present through recounting her past. Although she announces that she will focus her account on her "emotional life, not on literary or political adventures," the radical politics, feminism and cultural ferment of the '60s, coupled with her unswerving commitment to her writing, provide the inextricable backdrop of her tale.

Her fierce ambition to become a writer propels her beyond her rough Detroit childhood, a world laced with violence, street gangs, racism and prostitution. Born in 1936, she spent her early years in a family still reeling from the Depression. Her father installed and repaired heavy machinery for Westinghouse; her mother, a housewife, worked incessantly to keep their lives together. Although she credits her mother with introducing her to the joys of language through word games, neither of her parents understood her dreams: a college education, a literary life. Despite the lack of familial encouragement, by the age of 15 she had established the foundations of her future self. "

In that year," she writes, "I lost one of my best friends to a heroin overdose; my gentle intelligent cat was poisoned by neighbors because an Afro-American family was moving into our house; and my grandmother Hannah, to whom I was very close and who was my religious mentor, died of stomach cancer.

My family moved to a larger house where I had a room of my own with a door that shut, and I began to write." Years later, as an activist for civil rights, she realized that her militant feelings against racism had their roots in the murder of that cat. ...."

Those who know me, my activist history and what I went through as the legal system protected the monster Dombecks who killed my cats will understand ........

Her second marriage in 1960 "opened" in the middle of that decade, and its twists and turns with numerous partners over the next 10 years were often difficult for Piercy to negotiate. The recounting of confusion, pain and betrayal in the context of experimentation and liberation does not make for easy reading. In 1970, after living in New York City for several years, Piercy, whose work was beginning to be published, moved with her husband to Cape Cod, as a respite from the factional politics of the collapsing New Left and for relief from Piercy's often debilitating emphysema. There, she set up priorities from which she's scarcely wavered. "One of the things I chose explicitly was to put my writing first. Everything else in my life waxed and waned, but writing, I discovered during my restructuring, was my real core. Not any relationship. Not any love. Not any person." Ex-husbands and old friends might fret over their characterizations, but Piercy is no softer on herself. "In the best of times I am not an easy woman to get along with, but when someone is estranged from me, I can be annoying indeed. Everything about me seems too much, too fast, too sure, too loud."

Though she ultimately reconciled with her mother, her relationship with her father remained distant and difficult to the end. She is emphatic about not confusing familial obligations with affection: "In the retirement community facility, they imagined I adored my father because I fought them to accede to his wishes. Nonsense. I wasn't going to put up with him, so they were going to have to."

Writing about her cats, these limits dissolve; her prose expands and relaxes. As she sifts through the past, she sometimes seems irritated at failures of memory, the errors made, the destructive trajectory of relationships. In the end, it is the cats, the house, the present that resonate. The journey she depicts was not always pleasant; she has little nostalgia for days gone by. And she makes her case. Like her, the reader is content to return to the aging cats and writers sharing their lives and love in their house by the sea. " —The Los Angeles Times Book Review

Marge Piercy wrote the forward for a lovely book, Painting Cats. The painter speaks of how a feral changed her life. Join the club. Two changed mine. Luna taught me love and sacrifice. Stormy taught me about my PTSD. Blessed are the Feral for they bring us wisdom.


Blogger song! said...

Dear Green,

I read your story about your cats tonight again--what a woman you are, Green...I bet the angels are delighted, and? worry about you all at once....i bet.

and then?

I somehow had missed the mural you had painted. Maybe I had punched on the big pic the first time where you didn't say it was yours?


I stared at it for a long time, and wondered how I had missed it...and I went back a looked at it again.

It's absolutely beautiful. beautiful

You are a true beautiful soul. You are.

from my heart to your heart,


5:04 AM  
Blogger Greenconsciousness said...

Yes it was more of a channeled painting than my usual -- all those channeled paintings were painted on walls and I am sure when I left it was painted over. But I have the pictures of this one which is more than I have of any others. Thank you for reading my story and seeing the house I loved so much.

10:38 AM  
Blogger Greenconsciousness said...

Here is a picture of the first cat he killed with antifreeze. - Snowflake - used to put his arms around my neck and nuzzle and kiss me. Strayed into my life bringing Joy. I loved him so much. Chuck, my webmaster made his picture so that if you wait a minute Snowflake's eyes will open and close and if you run your mouse over him, he will glow.

If you click he will fade into a deeper level. In all the subconscious pictures, you have to wait a minute to see what they do except for the last one - the Galaxy - when you click there you are back to consciousness.

3:41 PM  
Blogger song! said...

Dear Green,

I forgot to click at the bottom so your answer never showed up on my email. Ah well duh.

well, you are in that story, the most. your tenderness and loving heart is there.


Snowflake was beautiful. don't know how people do those things Green.

I just don't. Actually, the thought makes me so angry....

I will go to the subconscious in the morning. It is early morning here, and I woke up from a dream and just figured out why you didn't answer.

Because you did.

I gave my condolences to DJF after you told me about her dad.

well, time for sleep. Hope you are fine.

Hope you are painting.

2:39 AM  
Blogger Greenconsciousness said...

I ALWAYS forget to check those boxes - then I forget who I talked to half the time. But I know where to find you and DJF and Val -- the blessed of the earth

8:22 AM  
Blogger song! said...

wrote a short poem last night.

Have decided, to review the tessellations material to clarify for you. VB has gone to Facebook and reconnected with her friends from Pacifica. Hopefully she is happy there.. DJF, I know where she is, but one cannot say those words in times like these. I have nearly finished my science fiction book...will send it to an agent Feb. 1. I found her on the web. I think you will like it. I hope.

You are blessed Green, yourself.

love to you

1:14 PM  

Links to this post:

Create a Link