Bee Lavender

Strikes, snowstorms, perpetual passport drama, and reading news of a bungled bombing = trip cancelled.

Free first class tickets…. squandered!

Oh well; at least this city is beautiful.

 

12.26.2009 copious

I finally have a bank account.

Huh. The process only took five and a half years.

How did I manage this stunning feat? It would be best not to share details, for fear that someone reading these words is warned off by my immigration woes. Suffice to say that my copious documentation of identity, assets, and fiscal stability were not enough.

I have sufficient funds, letters of reference, and a valid residency permit, but I am self-employed and my address is a boat – albeit one registered to and lawfully moored in council jurisdiction for which I pay council tax – so hey! It was a cash-only existence for me oh these many years.

Sheer bloody minded persistence did the trick in the end, but I promise, if I had known this would be such a huge problem, I might have just stayed home.

But anyway, with my shiny new account I: sent invoices for three years of freelance work, filed and paid taxes in six states and two nations, subscribed to all my favorite magazines, bought a Tate membership, and splashed out on my first ever pair of high heels.

Grownup? Ladylike? Or just foolhardy? Hmmm…

Continuing in grownup mode: I’ll be selling my boat later this spring. Of interest mostly to those who already have mooring sorted.

I’m definitely back on the grid.

I hope all this adult behavior abates in the new year.

12.25.2009 excellence

I gave and received excellence in abundance…. while Santa decided it’s all about stilts and show tunes.

Highlight of the holiday? A Ukulele orchestra.

After the usual feasting I celebrated this festive yule by acting as midwife to a brand new server. I named him Oswald.

 

12.20.2009 hint

I was away to London for literary debauchery; now I am back in Cambridge to attend a bookstore bankruptcy sale.

Helpful hint: if you wish to purchase  Lessons in Taxidermy at the Borders closing sale, it has been filed under “cookery.”

Poor little book – misunderstood by the publishers (who largely want it to be “inspirational” when it is in fact “subversive”), shelved incorrectly by the stores (generally under “parenting” or “disease” or “sports and fishing” instead of, um, anywhere accurate), distressing to those who appear in the pages (or who have since formed an emotional attachment to me “the person” as opposed to “the character”).

Though librarians like it, and that is the highest possible compliment.

12.17.2009 denied

It is snowing! Hurray!

Except…. I was denied a Santa visit for the first time in my whole life!! My (now) teenagers flatly refused.

At this rate I’m going to have to borrow some children.

I consoled myself by watching bunnies frolic through sparkling white fields.

 

12.10.2009 proof

Ana’s first choice of London adventures? We bought flowers and slogged through the crowds at Westminster Abbey to offer a tribute to Aphra Behn.

The stone is inscribed Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be / Defence enough against Mortality – and it is directly on the path to the toilets.

Uncaring tourists kicked the bouquets aside just seconds after we put them on the grave, and we scuttled away shrieking with laughter.

Further perambulations took us through Covent Garden on a search for tights, the Shoreditch vintage stores questing for the perfect hat, dinner on Brick Lane with Alessandro and Yuka here on a short visit to ponder relocation.

The hunt for Oscar yielded no prescribed results, though Ana did find a charming young banker at the Commercial Tavern, and we towed him along to Jaguar Shoes for drinks and chatter.

Ana had difficulty tracking the fact that London closes early, but we still managed to make the end of Daniel’s birthday party – once again, the best of times spent with the dearest of people:

12.06.2009 tempting

It is no secret that I am thoroughly sick of this city; the question is, what keeps me here?

Now that my kid has dropped out of school, the answer has become: nothing whatsoever.

However, certain persuasive external forces are tempting me to stay. Or should I say bribing? Whichever. The offer this week is a secret, and incredibly desirable.

I resist because, dear reader, what is ever truly free?

While we ponder these existential concerns a much more entertaining event has happened – Ana Erotica is here!

Last time it was all about her search for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks. This time? We’re on the hunt for someone named Oscar.

England, you are on notice.

I am not ashamed to admit the delight I feel hanging out with people who punctuate all sentences with AWESOME.

12.01.2009 ascete

James has lately found love & all that good stuff in, of all places, Ohio. Why do so many people from my youth end up in that state? FYI: I will never visit. Though I do miss James, at least!

We were the best and closest of friends throughout our grim years in the Pacific Northwest, sharing everything including a shotgun shack in Olympia, before taking off for (in his case) Tokyo by way of Chicago (and in mine) England, and scattered destinations in between. During the traveling years we corresponded nearly every day, and for awhile he lived as an ascete in my Portland basement.

His newfound happiness has translated to a marked lack of communication – but I don’t mind, because I love him quite sincerely and it is tremendously thrilling to know that he has found the life he wants to live.

Oh, and in case you didn’t notice, he is supremely talented. You should definitely buy his book.

 

Today, like every day in the United Kingdom, I am thankful to live in a country where standard medical care is free, always.

Yes, there are wait lists – rationing – and excellence is variable depending on your postcode. But the basics are all in place; nobody wants for an asthma inhaler, or refrains from seeking emergency care. Everyone can in fact receive treatment for all manner of chronic conditions, including a liberal sprinkling of drugs I personally would consider experimental or pointless.

The system is incentivized, but in a civilized fashion: as a survivor of a particular kind of cancer I’m not allowed to pay for drugs because they really really really <i>really</i> want me to take the stuff that keeps me alive and moderately well. The murky central organizing committee apparently reckons ‘free’ is a good price to pay for compliance.

Now that I have the permanent right to live in the UK I am safe, but I’ve been watching the move toward reform in the states with great interest. Not because I want to go home (though I sort of do) or because I am fundamentally uninsurable in a pure capitalist model (though I am) but mainly because my friends and family are impacted by current policies. I’m worried about my parents right now, and about what my kids might do in the future. You know, that whole ‘family as a fundamental building block of society’ rhetoric.

Of course I was sufficiently indoctrinated in the bullshit bootstrap ethos to feel that I ought to work hard for my money and benefits; but my instinct was that no amount of work could protect me.

The first Americans in my family only arrived there about eighty years before I left, and I can assure you my ancestors were primarily economic immigrants. They didn’t leave their homelands seeking adventure, or to flee war. They wanted food and land and opportunities for their children to be something better than working class.

I’m the result, one of the first in the stateside family to permanently move more than six miles from the pioneer homestead, go to college, succeed by the standards of the community I was born in. And I did exactly what they wanted without losing sight of what they sacrificed – though the family is not especially impressed by any of my escapades.

My great-grandma lived to one hundred; she knew and disliked me, and met my daughter. But she probably never imagined her decades of dodging deportation would directly influence me to choose a new life in Europe. Not exactly a popular destination if you consult the huddled masses and etc.

I’m sort of with her on the bewilderment, but for a different reason: health insurance. Complicated? Oh, yes.

Right now I am sitting around thinking about questions I am not equipped to answer, and the reason is simple. I don’t recognize myself in this scenario. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, everything that has happened, even the fact that I am standing in a kitchen in Cambridge England cooking pumpkin pie, I am still a poor kid from a peninsula west of Seattle.

I lack a sense of entitlement to the extent that I do not even feel comfortable typing up my problems, let alone talking about the intricate and interesting bits about moving to a new country.

Basically I feel like an impostor. Though all the evidence indicates this is my real life. Some of you have even met me!

Happy Thanksgiving.

11.23.2009 vow

There are two cliched observations about money that I never understood growing up poor:

1. Having enough to survive is crucial, and enough to play is important. More? Not just irrelevant to happiness, but actively destructive, because…

2. More money = more trouble. Tupak probably said it best as far as relationship woes, but beyond that, all those celebrities having absurd accounting problems? I get it now.

Fifteen years ago I took a vow that I would work only for integrity of the experience, not for material rewards, regardless of consequence. There were a few skint years (none of us care much for eggs, milk, or vegan mush after surviving on WIC and punk house hospitality) but overall the experiment was strangely lucrative.

Because I fundamentally do not care about getting rich, I have avoided all of the social traps associated with chasing money. Put me in any environment, be that an ‘important’ dinner or BBC live broadcast, and I will say exactly what I wish. I have nobody to impress, nothing to lose, nothing to gain.

Of course my purity is easy to sustain, since my job is random and theatrical. The audience expects the writer to misbehave, and I deliver, then make them cry. This does not pay vast sums, but it does pay (as my grandma would say) regular.

Avoiding the obvious and standard traps implied by matrimony and career but protecting the children and my own health required brutal, creative, and destructive effort. Observers might even say the emotional cost was too high – but I did it, and here I am.

How extraordinary and alarming; I ended up where I wanted to be all along. If you had asked me at age ten, this is the future I was dreaming about.

The only real penalty of autonomy? I am perpetually homesick, and there is no cure.

Today I’m making a feast while missing my mother, Marisa, Stella & Al, the forests and water.

 

11.20.2009 recce

Orphan Thanksgiving was cancelled for the first time in, what, a decade? Mainly because I could not face cooking for a crowd of fifty or more people who do not understand the tradition.

Still, I will be cooking for a smaller group, on a different date, at a secret location. Shh.

The main problem this year is the fact that cranberries and pumpkin are scarce to nonexistent. Some kind of crop famine? I have no idea. So it was away to London to look for a solution!

While there I also went on some typewriter recon (or recce if you insist) in the murky lanes of Middlesex.

 

11.18.2009 fleaming

This morning as I cycled in the city centre I narrowly avoided being crushed to death by a bus sporting an advert for the Dick Whittington play.

Oh, the humiliation to be killed by a panto!

Recently I was thwarted in my desire to purchase prosthetic hands, but consoled myself with a collection of antique teeth. Plus a silver tracheostomy tube. Oh, and some 19th century bloodletting equipment.

Or should I say fleaming? Whatever!

What a merry xmas this will be….

 

11.16.2009 chat

Today at the cafe I took my headphones off and instantly got sucked into a vortex of chat.

Specifically, someone tried to talk to me about irrational fears, and I exclaimed “That kind of cancer is no big deal! Don’t be such a wuss!” Strangers at surrounding tables stared in shock.

Ladychat FAIL.

Later I invested in expensive moisturizing products, only to be informed (by a helpful teen) that I now smell like moist towelette.

 

11.15.2009 nearby

I decided to buy a typewriter – found they are now archaic and expensive – remembered I own one – dug it out of storage and discovered it only needs cleaning and a fresh ribbon – googled for a solution – and discovered almost all UK typewriter repair shops are in Norfolk and Suffolk (aka nearby).

Huh.

 

11.14.2009 remember

Tonight as we walked across Jesus Green I noticed one of my fellow boaters was out in the dark calling for her lost cat, and it struck me that I have grown accustomed to common lands functioning not just as public space but as my own backyard.

We use the space to play, eat, read, and cycle, ignoring the grandeur interspersed with grazing cattle and monuments to martyrs. The commons are more evocative of this university city than any of the closed colleges; I don’t know when I will leave, but I already know that I will miss them.

My kid, five when we left Portland and almost thirteen now, stopped to watch someone practicing tricks. He asked “Which of our friends ate fire?”

I know many circus performers, but he has only met a few. “I’m not sure who you mean,” I replied. “Bob? Remember, she lived in a house called The Palace, with a trapeze in the front room and a half-pipe out back.”

“Half-pipe?”

“Skate ramp.”

“Oh. So she lived in the most fun house ever?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I don’t remember.”

 

11.12.2009 bidding

Reading Isherwood, listening to Al Stewart, bidding on prosthetic eyes, and ignoring posh wanker undergrads: another ordinary day in Cambridge.

Exacerbated by the fact that my offspring just said I’m more like an arcade token than a trophy.

 

11.10.2009 menu

I just did the math and realized I spend more on coffee in a single day here in jolly ye olde world than I would have invested in a week of groceries in Portland. Huh.

This is largely down to the fact that the Northwest offers (whether you wish to partake or not) an informal gift economy of favors and hookups. When I moved here the exchange rate and high prices were intense, but the really shocking fact was that I had to pay at all.

 

11.06.2009 difficult

The grownup offspring needed to renew her U.S. passport. She reports it is difficult to do so if you don’t know your social security number, phone number, or the full name of your biological father.

Huh.

Well, I mean. I know his name. I can even spell it!

While she was in the embassy I wandered around, discovering amongst other things that Mayfair freaks me out.

Mostly though I pondered the choices I have already made, or refused to make, or accepted by default.

Recently I was offered an opportunity that is tempting, but I am feeling fretful about doing something that doesn’t entirely suit. If nothing else, Cambridge has taught me that this is a valid concern.

But then again, Cambridge looked great – from a distance. How can you know if a new job, new town, new relationship, new anything, will work – until you get there?

And, somewhere just behind or under the ponderous practicality of questions like ‘where should I live’ and ‘how to educate children’ and ‘health care: entitlement or luxury? discuss’ is my essential inescapable reckless nature.

Cause you know what I think is really super fun?

Making unilateral life changing decisions without considering the consequences!

 

11.05.2009 nonplussed

This morning I had to venture forth early and skip my traditional morning at the Front Room. At a new indeterminate cafe I was tormented by conversation wafting from a nearby table.

What should we call the hipster version of Ladies Who Lunch? This subgenre is mercifully absent from Cambridge life….

Then it was time to accompany my elder child to University Open Day with 1.2 million teenagers, genus Wistful and Artistic.

This offspring was nonplussed by potential peers lounging in the hallways, but I pointed out that you should never judge a school by the ambivalence or ambition of the haircuts.

I certainly never would have finished university if I had been paying attention to such things.

 

11.04.2009 society

That kid I evicted from the Dundee House in Olympia, WA back in 1994? The one who lived in his van, or the woods, or squatted the dorm kitchen?

Tonight he accepted a prestigious award and presented his research at the Royal Society.

You know when you were a child, and some teacher told you that learning to write cursive with indelible ink was mandatory for future success? And how that admonishment was just the start of a series of inflexible rules about costume, behavior, achievement, and attitude? Lies. Every single one. The real secret to success is simple: you have to want it, and work. Details do not matter.

 

11.03.2009 black

I woke this morning with the somber reflection that even insomnia is more fun in London.

We had a late start over eggs florentine & coffee at the Front Room (mmmm, my favorite London cafe) before dashing around the city running errands and imbibing additional treats.

Then in the evening we accidentally attended the Oxford Street Xmas lighting ceremony. With Jim Carey pulling the switch!! Double ick! I didn’t know! I was just trying to buy a pencil!

Eventually we battered our way through all the carolin’ and wassailin’ and successfully purchased thirteen identical black turtlenecks.

 

11.02.2009 hope

Remember my fond hope that changing spectacles and putting the hair up would disguise my identity? Dashed once again!

Regardless, I’m away to London with a shoerack, an extendable fork, two computers, and one stroppy teenager.

Evidently my notion of packing for a fancy event remains calibrated at “whichever garment crumples small enough to fit in my pocket.”

 

11.01.2009 reception

What does one wear to a lecture and reception at the Royal Society?

I finished the last of the Stumptown beans provided by the estimable Sara K and went in search of refreshment, discovering to my utter amazement a new cafe inside the Guildhall.

The place is filled with quaint genteel elderly people so perfect it looks like a BBC film set. From a different decade.

The best part? Free Daily Mail hookup! They even provide it attached to the long wooden post things. Ever so dignified, what?

Though I am compelled to point out that, contrary to silly newspaper recipe suggestions, jack-o-lanterns are NOT eatin’ pumpkins. If you live in the UK and want the yummy kind, ask a farmer. Or go to Selfridges.

This is the first year I’ve been denied trick or treating. Ever! In my entire life!

Sniff.

 

10.28.09 routine

Back in the routine of making cookies in a town without chocolate chips.

General notes: Austin isn’t gonna happen, kids. Maybe next year. Oh and for the stray remaining locals: Orphan Thanksgiving is cancelled.

I’ll be …. elsewhere.

 

10.26.09 curmudgeon

I was asked appear in a documentary involving a stunt that I thought facile.

I declined, expecting to be cancelled, and the producer…. took it well, then reiterated the request for an interview.

How odd.

In the states, telling a producer no is the quickest way to be kicked to the curb. Not that I ever cared when, for instance, the Jerry Springer show wanted me to diss teen moms (or whatever). No is the most powerful word ever.

Hopefully the process won’t be too painful, though I always sound like a crackpot on the radio.

Maybe because I am one? Though I was hoping ‘curmudgeon’ would start to take over in these elderly years.

Sigh.

 

10.27.09 rare

He is the rare and precious person equally brilliant at high table, primary school fete, and midnight maurading: farewell to Jean! He is off to a new old life in South Africa, and the city will not be the same.

I’ll miss him.

 

10.25.09 puddle

I’m back in England, where they like to store toilet paper on the floor.

Preferably in a puddle.

Observation – in Germany it is cold outside; in England it is cold inside.

 

10.24.09 sword

If anyone asks that old scar on my face is from a sword fight. Ja?

 

10.24.09 socializing

Renting a loft in Mitte, picnic lunches next to the remnants of the Berlin wall, hours reading and writing in coffee shops, public transit adventures, squats and ice cream, long walks by the river, dinners at Monsieur Vuong; everything about this city is seductive.

One afternoon I meandered over to Prenzlauer Berg to meet Carolyn to catch up on gossip, chat about work, and debate the merits of various cities.

Another day we hooked up with Holly Chernobyl (last seen at the height of hedonist Seattle adventures) in Kreuzberg for similar purposes, more delicious food, a graffiti tour, extreme hilarity.

It is accurate to say that one week in Berlin involves more fun with friends than I would experience in six months in Cambridge.

If the question is where should I live… next? the answer may well include Berlin.

Why? Because I can.

Shhh.

 

10.19.09 conceptual

This morning on the UBahn some random Americans heard me talking to my kid, announced that they are from “near Milwaukee Wisconsin,” then tried to engage us in conversation. Upon hearing that we live in England on purpose they looked baffled; when we indicated our trip to Germany was neither work nor pleasure but rather just the way we roll, they looked offended.

Then the woman accused me (literally – she looked perturbed, and said it in an insulted voice) of being “well dressed.”

Huh? Me? For the purposes of this fact finding mission I am attired in a £8 black skirt from H&M, a £6 black turtleneck from Uniqlo, and a ratty old (and basic) black coat. Yeah, I’m carrying a Comme des Garcons bag, but it is made of PVC and thus cheap, as far as designer kit goes. My uniform is not ambitious, or in any way remarkable. In fact, by European standards, I am defiantly downmarket.

Of course my son is quite elegant, towering over me in his suits, but he has dressed like that since infancy. We have not been converted by this life… we have just drifted toward appropriate mooring.

I stared at the strangers, in their matching brightly colored fleece, and they stared back: an impasse.

After they departed with salutations of fake cheer I was curious: aside from the normative rules of mall fashion, what else has my son missed?

A quick pop qiz revealed he does not know what Costco, Circle K, or Plaid Pantry are. He has never heard of chew (Big League or otherwise). He cannot name Slurpee flavors.

He has no clue what “junior high” means, whether on a conceptual or practical level.

I have failed him.

 

10.18.09 birthday

We’ve celebrated in Portland, Seattle, Denver, NYC, Cambridge, London, Venice, Paris, and now Berlin: happy thirteenth birthday to my brilliant son!

 

10.17.09 courtship

Immediate impressions of Germany:

At last – I have found a place where I look normal, but cannot understand anything whatsoever!

Bookstores, cycling, coffee, cheap housing, dinner & dioramas in Brecht’s basement, graffiti, kebaps in Kreuzberg, music, museums, puppet palaces, scores of friends, a yo-yo emporium. I purchased truly excellent new black tights, and then had a proper hot bath for the first time since moving to Europe. Berlin is a wonderland!

Could a place offer more?

This trip is the first stage of a courtship, and yes, I know that infatuation is always better than reality.

Still – my suitor offers some delicious candy.

 

 

10.13.09 delusional

Recently a new friend asked if a mutual acquaintance is really, truly, crazy. I shrugged a yes; this is an obvious conclusion based not just on character but also on behavior.

What amazed me was the question – how anyone could be tricked in to believing otherwise, when the facts are so obvious to anyone who cares to look.

I’m not the one to sensitively listen when your love affair with a poet, guru, or rock star goes awry. I’m not the one who can simulate surprise when your suicidal cousin does the deed. I fail, routinely, in all the simple sympathetic tasks, mostly because I expect the worst, and I have never been disappointed.

Hateful people are filled with hate. The delusional are deluded. The sick are sickly. Crazy is as crazy does. Etc. Hiding behind religion, philosophy, a career in the creative arts, science, or whatever does not change these facts.

The only trouble for me is… I like em like that. In fact, I broke off contact with the aforesaid mutual acquaintance not because he was demonstrably crazy, and a liar, but rather because he was boring. And because he wore sandals.

 

10.11.09 excursions

The best part about homeschooling? I have company for all of my museum excursions! Today we ventured forth to the Horniman:

 

10.10.09 sophistication

While I chose to move to the United Kingdom on a whim, and live in Cambridge out of inertia, I never vacillated in my basic intent to stay in this country.

I’ve paid dearly for the choice – in real terms through double taxation and massively high cost of living; I have three times as much cash, and live like a pauper.

There have been other subtle but nonetheless true costs, like the degradation of what I consider the nifty parts of my career: performance and touring. And then there are all the intangible and hugely painful bits like distance from friends and family.

Several people I love have died, and I did not get to say goodbye.

I have written and talked about these issues over the years, but never allowed myself to reckon the true damage. I denied the extent to which I felt trapped, because how ridiculous would that sound?

The opportunity to move to England sounds like a childhood wish fulfilled, because it is. Life on the river, and the ability to travel around Europe at will, wintering in the south of France, weekends in Prague or Rome, sounds like a dream, because it is.

To complain would require a level of sophistication approaching insanity.

But the fact that I am properly appreciative of the advantages I enjoy does not mean there are no consequences. The choice to emigrate (like the choice to parent) implies and explicitly requires enormous compromise in all other areas of life.

As the days and years accumulated I did not even realize how much this mattered. My problems, while rational, were absurd. If I have no sympathy for this kind of complaint, then why should anyone else?

I tried to be rude and dismissive to myself, but that didn’t seem to help very much. So I reverted to the favored old solution of humming and ignoring the problem.

Over the last thirty-eight years, I have worked endlessly hard, conquered fears, vanquished enemies, achieved all desires, forced every wish to come true, by whatever means necessary. Hanging out in an idyllic university town for awhile didn’t seem, in the abstract, such a challenge.

But, by the time I applied for permanent residency, I had capitulated all … hope. More than at any other time in my life, including but not limited to the cancer years, I truly felt despair. If I can’t enjoy this – this – mess, then what would ever sort things out? What is the point?

The fact that I disapprove of existential crises does not immunize me against the disease.

When the permanent residency was granted, I allowed myself a tiny thrill of satisfaction for a job well done. I did not expect the buoyant waves of delight that followed, sparked by the possession of something so far out of reach that I could not even fathom hoping for it.

“Indefinite leave to remain” – a simple piece of paper with some fancy seals – affixed to my passport – what does that mean anyway?

It means I have the right to live, work, buy houses, pay taxes, educate my children, die, pay more taxes, in a country where everyone is entitled to health care absolutely. My children share this privilege. They are safe. We are safe. Our neighbors and local friends are safe, or safe enough. For the first time.

Despondency, anxiety, and gloom vanished, to be replaced with a new set of questions. Beyond duty, without considering others, what do I want? If I can live anywhere, where should I live?

Between now and June I will have to decide – stay in the UK and apply for citizenship? Go back to the states? Something more exotic?

Who knows? The only thing I can report with any certainty: I am having a lot of fun.

 

10.9.09 real

Oh glorious day – my passport arrived! I am real again!

To celebrate I removed myself to London, where I decided that I should live at the Barbican. Or at least, that I have the wardrobe for it.

 

10.8.09 halloween

David Cameron, PM Heir Apparent (he calls himself a Liberal Conservative – huh?) says “every child should have the chances I had.”

Ooh! Gimme!

I also want his fabulously expensive dining room chairs. K? Thanks.

 

10.3.09 flutter

Lessons have been suspended for the day as the class was ‘taking a flutter’ on the horses at Newmarket. In the company of Cambridge professors – so the whole thing must be a sensible wholesome treat, right?

The ‘flutter’ earned £26. Now that is… an education?

 

10.1.09 etiquette

If you were enrolled at the Bee Lavender Academy of Etiquette, lessons of the day would include punting, puppetry, and Don Quixote.

It appears that locals call homeschooling “home education.” Despite the fact that I dwell in the center of intellectual life, in a city where private tuition enjoys an illustrious history, nobody as yet has claimed any vague understanding of what we are doing. Acquaintances just look startled and uncomfortable.

The average resident of any Pacific Northwest neighborhood is more conversant in the history of radical education.

Summerhill is in England, people!

In other educational news, you might recall that my eldest has only attended school for approximately eighteen months of her entire life, while periodically acing cognitive and placement tests. She dropped out of art school a couple of years ago but decided to return to the academic trough to finish up A levels in preparation for university…. and is now enraged to find that she is an “Oxbridge candidate.”

For those far away from such niceties, this means that her scores and aptitude and demeanor have placed her in a defined track, where she is expected to apply to either Oxford or Cambridge. And if you can, then you should, says received wisdom.

Except she doesn’t want to. She says they are both shit, and beneath her contempt.

This is so far from my experience of life I can’t do much except laugh.

Following a long and illustrious family tradition, my youngest has elected to drop out of school.

This is very exciting; my offspring are … lively.

I had expected my son to spend a week or several meandering around before we started any sort of ambitious educational schedule.

Instead, he negotiated a multi-faceted curriculum including writing, reading, languages, music, physics, biology, and maths.

To the extent that he has managed to finish an entire year of advanced algebra work…. in three days. While blazing his way through a couple of tomes of classic literature. Interspersed with his habitual allotment of P. G. Wodehouse, obviously.

He says that he feels happier and more fulfilled now that he is able to do proper work.

I shouldn’t be surprised; my offspring are excessively difficult and eccentric and twitchy, but they do have some mad skills.

Literally.

If you were enrolled at the Bee Lavender Academy of Etiquette, lessons of the day would include letter writing, filmmaking, and David Copperfield.

 

9.28.09 confusing

I’ve made a habit of living in towns only while the library is closed for renovation, and this place is no different.

So I suspected it was an urban myth but no! The Cambridge Central Library is really and truly open… for the first time in years!

Summary: the new facility is bigger, uglier, more confusing, and features a cafe implausibly selling wine.

Though it is definitely open, and that is better than closed.

 

9.30.09 visiting

Natalia is visiting! Jealous, Seattle?

 

9.27.09 regardless

While thinking about the old neighborhood (and new Buy Olympia store) it struck me that wherever I travel, my book is always stocked, but never included in the ‘local writer’ section…. regardless of the city. Even in the locations described in the text.

It would appear to be official – no town or region presumes or pretends to claim me.

 

9.26.09 buy

When I moved to Portland, the neighborhood (like my house) was boarded and derelict…. now look! The streets are clogged with boutiques and cafes!

Oh, how I miss the NW. But anyway: go here when it opens. Buy lots of stuff:

Land

 

9.25.09 lurking

I spent the morning lurking around Kings Cross waiting to be interviewed for a documentary about health care reform. Glamorous? Not.

Though I discovered once again that I have no problem disclosing all of my darkest secrets for the entertainment of a national broadcast audience.

While giggling maniacally.

Of course you knew that, but it always surprises me.

 

9.24.09 search

Finalizing my punishing quest in search of good coffee and it is official: Savino’s has the best in Cambridgeshire, AND they play Jens Lekman mixed with wacky eurorap before 10am, AND old men steal my copy of the Daily Mail when I’m not looking.

Too perfect.

 

9.21.09 exist

Ten days worth of strike-delayed letters, packages, and newspapers showed up all in a rush…. including presents from Sara K in Portland! Mmm, Stumptown coffee.

There was also a package from my mother with marvels including a valid driving license!

I officially exist again.

Sort of.

Because of course, the bounty did not include a passport.

Tick, tock.

9.20.09 jolly

Yesterday I watched archive films of seaside holidays in the afternoon, then attended a Spike Milligan play in the evening.

Tonight I hung out on the bridge, watching silent movies and listening to live music. I heart the film festival!

Jolly good, what?

 

9.17.09 pain

Passport renewal + postal strike = pain! I’ve never crossed a picket line but my identification is gonna have to…. or at least, I hope it manages to return soon.

 

9.16.09 licking

Reading a design magazine, I was shocked to see a European hipster wearing a Huskies hoodie.

Um, in a word: no.

For those not initiated, I’m talking about the mascot and logo of the University of Washington sports teams. To be more specific, a really ugly one, involving the loathed color purple.

Later on Midsummer Common I discovered that it is difficult to unlock your bicycle when a cow is licking it.

9.15.09 nowhere

This morning I was forced by circumstance to Ladychat at the health food store before 10am! Is nowhere safe??

Worse yet, I also talked on the telephone. Oh, the horror!

And I was confirming a radio interview. I sound like a demented ten year old on the radio!

 

9.14.09 like

Away to London with my darling daughter, where we took afternoon tea at Selfridges and discussed her marvelous plans for the future.

We also managed to get trapped in a cupcake commercial! Why do these things always happen to me?

 

9.13.09 like

I finally found semi-acceptable new spectacles (shock!), but the store won’t make em without a recent exam (drat!).

I don’t LIKE my real prescription! It gives me headaches. I did the math, and it would be cheaper (and easier) to fly to NYC for new spectacles. Though that is impossible without a passport.

Sigh.

In other local news, it is conker season!

Will this be my last in Cambridge, the UK, Europe? I have no idea.

 

9.12.09 cautious

A looming postal strike serves to underscore a series of raw yet subtle questions that have only become obvious since I achieved indefinite leave to remain.

In the most cautious way possible, I am asking ‘do I feel safe now’ and ‘where do I belong.’

Both of these were irrelevant until I had the right to stay in the UK. I’m still ostensibly just a guest worker, a glorified visitor with benefits, but the new status does confer nominal permanence.

Finally, at long last, I have the right to live in a country committed to basic social equality.

No matter what criticisms my British friends might have of their homeland, I do love this country. I am thoroughly enamored to the extent I am not just willing but thrilled to pay massive taxes to support the NHS, and social housing, and state education.

The question becomes: does the UK want me? I’m not so sure.

 

9.11.09 distract

To distract myself from the insidious oozing worry of waiting for a new passport I have been poking around various social networking sites. They definitely offer some amusing interludes, though I suspect the main purpose of Facebook is to connect me to people who never missed me anyway. If they were being, hmm, what is the word? Honest.

While that might sound cruel, think about it – I am certainly not hard to find. My internet slug trail is long, wide, and gooey.

And this is not a recent anomaly – I have friendships extending back decades before social networking sites made everyone feel as though they are one click away from intimacy. I keep track of people, stories, files, ephemera.

In fact, I remain amazed at how many people I still know from compulsory alphabetical seating in junior high.

9.10.09 proof

This afternoon I signed, dated, and mailed my stateside passport renewal application. Including original documents, not least the visa and indefinite leave to remain certificate.

For the next little while I’m a foreign national dwelling in the UK with no identification or proof of residency.

Ick.

Then I spent two hours shopping for, and six hours making, food I could buy in approximately two minutes down the street from my Seattle house.

 

9.9.09 divinity

The infestation of tourists has finally abated for the season, and the difference out there is amazing…. I hardly ever feel an overwhelming urge to smack divinity grad students.

 

9.8.09 lodgings

Marisa reports the taxidermy collection, funeral house telephone, and precious recordings of the Leavenworth Marlin Handbell Choir (along with the rest of the record collection) have found excellent temporary lodgings.

 

9.7.09 bulletproof

Did you know it is possible to purchase bulletproof polo shirts at Harrod’s?

In the continuing Ladyfication experiment, I attempted to buy fancy soap at a fancy store for the first time in my whole life.

Though I was thwarted by capitalism (and allergies), thank goodness.

 

9.6.09 care

When Gabriel moved out of my Portland house I found a new foster home for the record collection and houseplants, though I forgot to arrange care for the taxidermy.

Why? Because apparently I have “issues.” Like wanting to move back to Portland.

Right now.

Seven years away and the feeling hasn’t dissipated. Too bad about that whole lack-of-equitable-health-care thing.

9.5.09 desire

I feel an urgent desire to scurry off to Paris.

Except I need to renew my passport. Poor me!

To sublimate a thwarted need for perpetual motion I am making chili con carne & corn bread while listening to Berlin.

It is like I’m back in 1982 all of a sudden.

 

9.4.09 observation

Observation: the worst part of having your picture in the newspaper? It becomes very clear who reads newspapers.

I am sufficiently exasperated by Cambridge that I no longer wish to enumerate the reasons. However, I would like to offer a tip to locals: if you have been rude, or dismissive, or ignored me every day for, hmm, five years…. I noticed. Whether your attitude derived from the fact that I am tattered, tattooed, and/or not affiliated with the university, know what? I’m not offended; I don’t care.

I simply do not want to know you. To be precise and succinct: you are not interesting.

 

9.3.09 first

First day of school, and first day cold enough to build a fire: autumn has arrived!

 

9.1.09 ruffians

Good thing I like teenage ruffians ’cause they always love me.

This week, at least, I’m talking about cygnets. Obviously.

We’re at Station 43 aka Audley End House learning about the SOE.

Observation of the day: small town girls are scary!

My kid calmly retorts “but you are one.”

Too true.

 

8.28.09 retrieved

I retrieved my kid from his stateside sojourn, and now we’re back in Cambridge making frijoles de la olla, mole poblano, and tortillas from scratch.

Finding the constituent ingredients was, of course, harrowing.

 

8.26.09 retaliated

I had a lovely dinner with my agent, during which I studiously avoided questions like “what are you working on?”

Later in the week I was thwarted by capitalism yet again, and retaliated by purchasing another Comme des Garcons bag.

Now I’m reading vintage house porn during the waning hours of this holiday….

London, it has been fun. Lets do this again soon.

 

8.23.09 stings

Lolling around London Fields I observed intrepid young entrepreneurs selling homemade cocktails to a thirsty public, and other people wandering around chatting with strangers.

Someone approached and asked “Can I have your number?”

“No.”

“Name?”

“Bee.”

“For beautiful?”

“No – for the insect that stings.”

 

8.21.09 responsibility

Back in the land of responsibility, today I learned that it is impossible to order school uniforms unless you know the relevant “house colour.”

Though the school provides no guidelines as to what that phrase means in relation to the age or grade of my kid, and there is no sorting hat to decide.

 

8.20.09 treacherous

Earlier in the week I spent the whole night in a Soho members-only club. Last night I got trapped in the mosh pit at the antifolk festival. Both evenings ended on the highly entertaining nightbus. I love it; I make so many new …. friends.

I’m supposed to go out again shortly but really, am I too tired for another London all nighter? Or perhaps just too … lazy?

If I do go out, I have to decide what to wear and I’m not used to thinking about that. Life is so treacherous!

Countdown: ten days til real life resumes!

 

8.17.09 cover

Cover blown. One of the regular customers at my favorite cafe asked “so, you are a journalist?”

Oh no!

 

8.16.09 rationed

Something I wrote for The Guardian:

The truth is, healthcare is already rationed in the states.

 

8.14.09 frazzled

Lucky dress is out on the town, frazzled authoress contained within. Ever tried to meet a deadline while on a train, with only an iPhone and index finger at your disposal?

Not recommended.

 

8.13.09 hedonism

I’m on an extended working vacation in London but had to take a break from wanton hedonism to go back to Cambridge to pick up my prescription refills.

You know, those drugs that I must take to remain “alive.” The stuff I get for free because I live in a country with rational health policies.

Home for a day and the city attempts to charm me. Oh, Cambridge, what is the phrase – too little, too late? Though I do adore the river.

 

8.12.09 profligate

I am both amazed and extremely thankful I never knew about Dover Street Market before today.

I just bought a Comme des Garcons bag – and am reeling in profligate shock.

Presumably I will recover.

 

8.11.09 recalcitrant

While I forgot to book my own tickets, I did manage to organize a visit home for one of my recalcitrant teenagers.

In preparation for the flight to the states I allowed him to purchase gum for the first time ever.

The experience required a surprising level of detailed instruction.

 

8.10.09 reunion

My twentieth high school reunion is commencing in Bremerton, WA. While I seem to be wandering around …. London. England.

I really did intend to go. Oops.

 

8.8.09 knowledge

The days have been a mad swirl of activity, with coffee dates at the Front Room, excursions to Highgate Cemetery, picnics at the Thames Barrier, tickets for Le Cirque Invisible, entire days devoted to the BFI…

One afternoon next to the river I said “tide out, table set” and my kid didn’t know what the heck I was talking about. This demonstrates a truly shocking lack of knowledge about Pacific Northwest history and…. chowder chains.

 

8.4.09 fashion

This morning I tried to grab a cup of coffee at Rough Trade but got caught in the middle of a fashion shoot. I did not consent! I do not like!

In fact, it is fair to say I loathe Shoreditch, and love Southbank.

Probably shouldn’t say such things as doing so will almost surely mean I end up moving to Hoxton Square (or something), no matter how absurd and improbable that seems right now.

 

8.3.09 recommend

Away to London to take my kid for his annual pre-grandma haircut. I can heartily recommend Chaps and Dames in Finsbury Park. Right next door to my favorite cafe in the city and also, where else can you find opera singing barbers?

It has now been thirteen years since my last haircut, and it strikes me that the tragedy at the center of my life is: so much hair, and so little hairstyle! Trying just makes my neck hurt.

 

8.2.09 notice

Gabriel and Danielle have given notice they are moving out of my Portland house; the end of an era! That sweet little family has lived there longer than I ever did.

And note: despite long-distance pressure from real estate developers and lascivious locals, I will not be selling.

I bought a derelict but promising property in a crack corridor in 1996. I made it habitable, and then resisted touching the equity as the neighborhood gentrified to become what is arguably the niftiest on the west coast.

Passerby and even the occasional neighbor have tried to buy it off me at a deep discount because they think, as the only shabby holdover from olden times, the owner doesn’t understand the market. This is a category error. I might be far away but I’m not stupid.

The house is both beloved and my only strategic concession to saving for the future. I have no pension, but I also have no debt. My mortgage can’t go underwater; in this way and perhaps no other, I was quite a clever kitten. And regardless of the antics of the economy, I will always have a place to live if I want to go back.

I couldn’t otherwise afford to buy there now, for sure – the area is painfully perfect and priced to match.

Though I do admit the house needs work. I am going to paint it in tribute to the constructivism movement (because I can’t afford to cover it in mirrors), and I will be looking for new tenants soon. Friends only as per usual.

 

8.1.09 purpose

While running errands (as that appears to be my purpose in life) I developed a new and overwhelming goal: to live in a town tourists would never even consider visiting.

Oh, and my finger still hurts – updates will be brief by necessity.

 

8.1.09 anniversary

Today is the twenty-first anniversary of the accident.

Congratulations to us all on… remaining alive, at least.

I am once again pondering imponderables. Like “where should I live next” and similar trivial matters.

Though this time, realistic change will ensue. I’m just not gonna tell you what that means.

 

7.30.09 archives

Remember my favorite, splendid, very dead boots? I stupidly tried to wear them one last time, and Xtina had to find scissors to cut me out of the ensuing drama.

RIP, boots, I did love you. Even though I tossed you in a Finsbury Park dustbin.

The train back to Cambridge was so crowded my hair kept attacking people.

 

7.28.09 civilized

I survived the Ikea shuttle, and Ikea itself, and was excited about the sofa bed I bought for the office (no more crashing on the floor! How civilized!) until I realized I’m the one who has to assemble it.

 

7.25.09 swinging

I am officially crazy happy to be back in swinging London!

Off to the Imperial War Museum. Cause I roll like that. Oh, and did you see this?

Byron & Tauba in Science.

 

7.24.09 adventures

This afternoon I was reminiscing about life in Olympia. While some might recall the fragility of youth, I’m…. still wondering who broke the coffee pot.

If I kept track of the anniversaries of random hookups I would now be contemplating mid-90’s misadventures at the ladies rugby house on 4th Ave. But I don’t, so I won’t.

Seventeen years of ferocity, friendship, and fun have accumulated – how astonishing.

 

7.23.09 trophy

Nineteen years ago today an adorable raconteur arrived in the world fist first and facing the wrong direction. She has lived up to that promise in every possible way…. happy birthday to my amazing daughter!

 

7.22.09 trophy

I was informed I can never be a trophy wife because all of my shoes have holes and I wear my laddered tights backwards.

I could think of better reasons.

 

7.20.09 succinct

I write about stuff I actually like, and then only rarely.

This means I will never promote music, products, publications, services, etc., at the suggestion of a PR rep.

So, to be succinct, if you are one? Leave. Me. Alone!

 

7.18.09 graduation

I was thwarted in plans to dash to London.

Leaving me in a university town on graduation day – ugh! The debauchery has not started yet and I am already annoyed.

Freshly minted doctorates, dark matter, stolen journals, and textorcisms – just another day in Cambridge!

 

7.15.09 yobs

Today on the towpath some yobs were thinking of messing with me, but one said to the other in an emphatic and awed voice: SHE HAS A TATTOO.

The trouble vanished instantly.

 

7.14.09 virgin

After five years here, today provided my virgin experience of lurking in M&S foyer waiting for a storm to pass.

I never hid from rain in the NW – I’ve lost my Puget Sound pluck!

 

7.13.09 rampaging

The only thing worse than rampaging groups of Italian teenagers? Hordes of the peppy American variety.

It is always difficult to accomplish anything in the crowded city centre, more so during tourist season, and I am intrinsically unable to countenance any additional barriers while trying to purchase milk.

When the charity bullies jump in front of me and say “can I ask you a question?”  my anger reaches incandescent range. But I just say “no” (they are flummoxed) and walk on.

 

7.12.09 awake

This morning I walked around for thirty minutes before I noticed the live bumblebee in my slipper.

Before I had even been awake an hour, I’d already bashed two (necessary) body parts and doled out advice to three (unnecessary) tourists. Life on the river is sometimes difficult.

 

7.11.09 hilarious

Last night I watched Bill & Ted for the first time since meandering around downtown Port Orchard in the late 80’s and accidentally acquiring a husband. Both the marriage and the movie still strike me as stupid but hilarious. Though perhaps more of the former than the latter.

 

7.10.09 ogle

I was nearly killed by an errant Royal Mail van, but survived to laugh with the driver over his error.

Or his need to ogle me. Or whatever.

Oh, summer bike rides- when my cleavage is like the grill of a semi in the ambitious collection of dead bugs.

 

7.9.09 restock

I am a true and fervent fan of the NHS but sometimes accompany friends and family as they procure other sorts of services.

One cool thing about private hospitals: they wash hands before blood tests!

The free drinks are also a bonus.

I just watched a man in a full chef uniform, including hat, restock a vending machine.

 

7.8.09 boating

Sara and Lola ventured to Cambridge where we went to the Harry Potter premiere, toured the Wren Library, checked out the Eagle, went punting, and took a boat trip down to Fen Ditton.

When the guests departed I handed Sara a copy of Lessons in Taxidermy with the comment “now remember, this is FUNNY.”

Friends are good:

 

7.7.09 flashlight

Did you know I always travel with a flashlight? Or three. Quite useful, if I say so myself.

The morning was whiled away at the Museum of Childhood, where I learned Roald Dahl kept 100 budgies and taught his mynah bird to swear.

Later we met Portland friends for a picnic on Primrose Hill, then followed Allan over to his concert. I was expecting to be turned away because of the kids (licensing laws do not much care if your dad is in the band) and was amazed to find that my youngest offspring, not yet a teenager, looks old enough to bluff his way into a rock show.

Though I still made him stay in the green room.

 

7.4.09 sane

Noted: I am surrounded by high maintenance, self-centered, overly dramatic contrarians. Good thing I am the very definition of sanity and stability, eh?

And on that note, I remain an American so… Happy Independence Day!

 

7.3.09 snubbed

Today I inadvertently snubbed someone.

The remarkable aspect of the experience? I noticed!

Oh, and I remain as always surprised to find myself allergic to scotch broom. Though I’m not sure that is what they call it here, or even if that is the proper name stateside.

 

7.2.09 addiction

I didn’t manage to have coffee before noon and subsequently feel half dead. How long did it take for that addiction to take hold – eight weeks? I’m not drinking any more or less caffeine than before; it is just somehow…. different.

Though I have not discovered the good coffee in this town (if it exists) and subsequently spend way too much time in chains.

I must say I find it uniquely horrifying to hear the Velvet Underground playing over the speakers at the Starbucks in Cambridge Market Square.

 

 

Away to Lammas Land, with a detour for a spot of cricket before a picnic in the Grantchester Meadows.

Later there was a dinner party hosted by Jean that lasted til dawn…. and I didn’t make anyone cry this time!

 

6.28.2009 optimistic

I can bend my finger for the first time in a week! This is the part where I am overly optimistic and end up even more injured.

The last few days have included hiding from tourists, exchange students wielding clipboards, punting touts, and sunlight. Not with marked success, but still.

 

6.25.2009 wake

Early morning sunshine, drinking coffee, watching the market wake, chatting with vendors: sometimes I love this city. The feeling will pass.

On the way home I spotted cygnets in the lock – guess they didn’t read the warning signs.

 

6.24.2009 neighbors

I do so adore Midsummer Fair. Why? Because it scares the bougie neighbors.

 

6.24.2009 takeaway

One awesome element of life here: DIY bone setting and dentistry kits. If only they offered takeaway phlebotomy!

A few things I cannot do with a broken finger: chop vegetables, apply sunblock to right arm, operate left hand brake on bicycle, type. Too bad that pretty much covers “life.”

 

6.23.2009 broken

I appear to have broken a finger. While doing… chores? This is only slightly less stupid than the Bunny Cage Lava Rock Incident.

 

6.22.2009 impact

While I adore my boat, there are a few elements of river life I could give up. For instance, I do not not enjoy debating environmental impact policies with drunk people before 10am.

Ever the optimist, I always make the mistake of assuming that forward motion solves all problems. In that regard, I would like to register a wish for a peniche on the Seine next xmas. Thanks in advance, Santa!

 

6.19.2009 fixedly

Tonight I went to an academical sort of party and someone said “aren’t you a nice looking girl” while staring fixedly at my chest.

I would have thumped him, but he was 83 years old, so I went and hid behind the buffet instead.

 

6.18.2009 awesome

First coffee related injury! Caffeine + cobblestones = calamity.

 

6.17.2009 awesome

I know too many secrets and I am feeling impatient instead of reticent.

But today is the first day I have woken up knowing that I am truly safe, and it is…. anti-climactic but awesome.

 

6.16.2009 loud

This morning I would have enjoyed working at the cafe much more if the Americans would just SHUT UP. People from my homeland are so …. loud.

Foreshadowing? You be the judge…. a courier just turned up (about two months earlier than expected) to present me with formal UK residency papers.

 

6.15.2009 suicide

I’ve lived here so long, I just thought “huh – the town sure is rowdy today….”

What was that noise? Why Suicide Sunday, of course.

Though it truly is as shocking as it sounds, if you aren’t used to such things.

To locals this is just part of the academic year; when they aren’t naked and vomiting in parks, the students are swanning around in ballgowns and tuxedos. And of course, there is the accent; even when slurring, they are all, to my humble ear, posh wankers.

Quite the spectacle – and remember, I attended a college that routinely had people OD’ing in the laundry room. Cambridge is simply off the scale for debauchery.

My kids have a tutor who keeps insisting they are Oxbridge candidates – but I am appalled at the suggestion.

I know, I know, not a nice thing to say…. but hey, I never claimed to be nice.

 

6.13.2009 massive

Five years in this town has not rendered me sufficiently jaded to ignore the fireworks – weeks and weeks of massive celebrations every night? Ho hum.

But today was the Town & Country Show. Steam engines, sheep dogs, and jousting, with the Bronski Beat as soundtrack – oh my! I am genuinely thrilled.

 

6.12.2009 geek

The rummage for old legal papers reveals that I apparently still own a Commodore 64, boxed, with the original manual.

I am distracting myself from the difficulties of the immigration situation by reading biographies about logicians, and Alfred Tarski is officially my new secret boyfriend.

And! Tonight I have front row seats in the theatre founded by Keynes to watch Leonard from Butterflies star in a Christie play. I am psyched!

The geek factor this week is very high.

 

6.11.2009 immigration

Benefits of being OCD #123: when the immigration attorney writes at 4 am demanding decades old documents, I know exactly where they are!

 

6.9.2009 inconceivable

Someone flirted with me – and I noticed! This would be a rare event anywhere but in Cambridge?! Inconceivable.

Then I attempted to shop at a grown-up lady store, only to find that I can make even the most respectable frock look egregiously slutty. Who knew. Not me, for sure.

 

6.8.2009 look

The application for Indefinite Leave to Remain (aka permanent UK residency) has been dispatched by courier to the attorney shepherding the next part of the process.

I can now accurately state where I was every single day over the course of the last five years. Not that I want to or anything.

FYI, I reckon 8am is not the most ideal time to shoot passport photos. Unless you like that “look,” of course.

 

6.7.2009 relinquish

Tomorrow I relinquish my passport for an unspecified length of time. Adventures will therefore be restricted to the UK (England, Wales, Scotland, Northern Ireland). The only reasonable idea I’ve only come up with is <a href=”http://www.bekonscot.co.uk/”>Bekonscot Model Village</a>.

But Byron says that if I go there, the universe may end. So… whatever.

 

6.5.2009 escape

This morning I just wanted to drink coffee and write but instead I was stranded in a Bermuda Triangle of Ladychat. Must. Escape!

I hustled my headphones in and did my best to ignore, but could still hear a sharpish twittery noise…. though at least no words were discernible!

Then as I cycled to the river, the people who live on Drunk Bench cheerfully shouted “Oi! It’s the girl who loses her boat! Don’t do that today, we’re busy!”

 

6.4.2009 incident

One hundred and seven rolls of film later, guess what turned up? The Chorus at the first Ladyfest. Including bit not limited to the Beauty Bark Incident.

On the way to the camera store I provided directions and assistance to three sets of strangers. Before 9am. Perhaps I should give up my career and switch to the tourism industry.

Except, oh wait, I don’t like ….strangers.

 

 

6.2.2009 capitalist

Capitalist bastards took Birdsong off the radio!

That was sufficiently appalling, but this afternoon I can’t decide: am I more of a “Canal Boat” or “Waterways World” kind of girl? I’m certainly too cheap to buy both. How stressful.

On the topic of thrift, I am generally thrilled to find my books in charity shops… except today I stumbled across the one with my face on the cover. Creepy!

 

6.1.2009 coffee

Back on the devils teat I’m realizing how special Olympia was, at least in terms of coffee. I miss the Smithfield! The Asterisk! Batdorf & Bronson! Dancing Goat! Heck, even the campus coffee cart was better than anything here.

Today I’m eating bread, cheese, cherries & plums on the banks of the river. If the tourists would stop pestering me I would say this is a perfect afternoon!

Though I must pre-emptively admit I loathe, detest, and abhor the Strawberry Fair.

I spent the morning sorting toiletries into two categories: “labels in languages I do not speak” and “tiny bottles of Aveda snagged from hotels.”

Is it possible to travel too much?

I was extremely excited to find that the city centre chemist now stocks the sunblock I normally fly to France to purchase. My life is officially perfect! I am quite insufferable.

 

5.30.2009 reunion

A friend commented on the Jordan/Peter Andre split: just proves if you marry for tits, you end up with crazy. I mean, look at you!

In more pertinent news, it has been five years, five months, and twenty-three days since I last tasted coffee and I have decided: today is the day for a reunion with my favorite beverage. Wish me luck! Who knows how I will react to such a strong stimulant!

 

5.25.2009 hols

In the midst of what people in England call ‘hols,’ including visits to a twelfth century castle, the largest toy museum in the world, and a guinea pig safari park!

 

5.23.2009 nibbling

The view from my boat includes a cow nibbling on my bicycle.

I’ve been reading the newspaper and must report I am terribly disappointed that there isn’t more racy sexy nonsense in the current political scandal. Mortgage fiddling is BORING.

Off to a hot date with the Audley End Miniature Railway.

 

5.21.2009 routine

It is difficult to catch up on life after a long absence, but this I know for sure: I am not an intercontinental answering service. I don’t even know my own phone number!

Though if I had read the several hundred pieces of email that arrived while I was traveling, I would have known that someone wrote a song for me!

Back in the routine of archive films, I managed to see ‘Writers and Trains’ and… I’m ever so pleased that both Auden and Betjeman shared my sincere love of the railways.

Tonight I’m going out to watch Forgotten Music from the GPO (including live orchestra and chorus) with the best dressed and most charming chap in all of England. AKA my son.

 

5.20.2009 quarantine

I am merely a visitor in this country, despite the fact that I work here and pay taxes and whatnot. While I am entitled to use the health services, I do not feel that I can criticize the system. At least until August, when my permanent residency is certified.

However, I do have major concerns about the treatment I have received during the so-called flu epidemic.

Not that it was insufficient – quite the opposite.

I flew back to the UK from an area of the states with verified swine flu cases. I fell sick within the incubation time, and had several of the defining symptoms of the malady.

But I didn’t feel bad enough to seek medical attention, and didn’t know there was a public health issue as I failed to read the newspaper during the tenure of the illness. By the time I was persuaded to call, I was almost entirely better and certainly past the contagious point regardless of any other factor.

Why then was I prescribed Tamiflu? After my official government quarantine ended?

Or, more worryingly, why was I prescribed anything without a proper physical exam?

Nobody even asked if, for instance, I have allergies or a history of adverse drug reactions.

The anonymous people at the call centre did not, in fact, ask any searching questions about my particular history; they just noted whatever it occurred to me to disclose.

My questions about Tamiflu as a specific chemical compound could not be answered by the person on the line. My reluctance to take any drug for any reason whatsoever was disregarded. My resistance to taking medications before consulting my own doctor? Brusquely dismissed.

I’d already been in a state of self-imposed isolation for ten days, and was willing to accept formal quarantine as a condition of refusing medication.

That was not an option – I was told I absolutely had to take the drug.

In a word, why?

I didn’t want it, I didn’t have any symptoms it could help with, and I was no longer a threat to the public, even if Tamiful has magical unknown anti-infection properties (it doesn’t).

When I tried to weasel out of it using the ‘no ride to the chemist’ excuse the very nice concerned NHS people dispatched a delivery.

Now I have a spiffy unwanted box of a drug I will not take.

I’m going to go way outside of my normal remit and make a prediction that this approach to prescribing a relatively unknown drug to people who are not especially sick is foolhardy at best, dangerous at worst.

 

5.13.2009 test

I was the driver on the day of the PSAT’s but we all missed the test because I was unable to find the building. Even though it is the only octagon in the county. My own parents didn’t know or care, but my mates were grounded over the debacle, and probably should have extended the lesson since it was the exact same crew in my car when the accident happened.

Without any preparation or interest, I pulled a perfect score on the verbal portion of the SAT’s, then elected to nap through the rest of the test. Why bother to make the attempt, when my college-of-choice didn’t require any particular score? Besides, my elder cousin had aced it without any discernible positive change in his life. Who cares about these things? Not our family, for sure! If memory serves, he ended his young life wandering – schizophrenic, addicted, and homeless. Though that might just be a rumor.

I sat the GRE the day after invasive jaw surgery, high on (and having an allergic reaction to) Percoset. I have no memories of…. any little bit of the whole ordeal, aside from the bloody surgical dressing stuffed down a gaping wound in the back of my mouth.

Today was mild by contrast. I woke up wincing and still sick, but officially no longer contagious. Then I trudged to London, where I shivered with fellow immigrants through the long registration to take the citizenship test. Knowledge required ranged between obvious and esoteric, and I was quite worried.

We were allowed forty-five minutes.

I finished in five, feeling hunted and horrified, arguing in my mind with the phrasing of the questions.

Though I passed.

My kid memorized the answers by rote (for instance, Question 19, answer = D) without engaging with the literature. Her method translated to a perfect score, and she finished first, then stood at the front of the class gossiping with the invigilator.

 

5.6.2009 presume

Of course, I should never presume to understand my own body.

I’ve been sick and ignoring the whole thing for several days, but last night a series of conversations with various folks found me on the telephone with the after-hours medical people, who agreed with my assessment of non-risk regarding the swine flu. Mainly because they thought I have it.

They certainly did not agree with my blithe indifference to intense joint pain. Various acronyms were bandied about, finally settling on the possibility of an abdominal strep infection.

When I first got sick last week I thought to myself Self, this feels like a strep infection… in my kidneys…. though I discarded the theory when I started to (mostly) get better.

See – having a high pain threshold is not always helpful.

Growing up sick and poor in the states I learned to ration my own healthcare, and the habits were so ingrained I persisted even with full insurance. In this country I have remained at least nominally healthy so I have never fully utilized all of the services available.

This means I was shocked nearly speechless to hear a stranger on the telephone inform me that not only was he worried, he was dispatching a doctor to examine me at my residence – posthaste.

Mainly because of that pesky childhood history thing; as the man on the phone pointed out, even when I feel better, in principle I can remain contagious, and might easily relapse. Cancer, even in permanent remission otherwise known as cured, can be so annoying.

Like a scene out of ET, suited and masked professionals turned up in my natural habitat to swab and poke and inquire.

When the first round of examinations proved insufficient, they came back again.

Numerous consultations, two home visits, drugs not only prescribed but also delivered – cost to me? Exactly nothing.

I love the National Health Service.

Right now I am officially quarantined – quite a novel experience, given that back in the states I was not just allowed but actually forced back out into the world… even when I was literally radioactive.

I don’t feel sick enough to be part of this pandemic, and expect the tests to prove my hunch that all is well. Probably about ten minutes after I cancel all of the plans for the evening!

But in the meanwhile, my home is under official government quarantine. With a sign on the door and everything.

Back in Cambridge in time for a wedding in college.

Congratulations to Adam and his beautiful bride!

 

4.22.2008 perplexity

One afternoon in Seattle I happened upon a friend I haven’t seen in two years and he asked what I’ve been up to.

I answered Not much – my life has been rather boring lately.

Later in the week I took the ferry to the place I was born, and from there a smaller ferry to my hometown. I was dismayed to find the latter has been replaced by a shiny new touring vessel; the decrepit ship that took Navy Yard workers across the bay throughout my childhood was set adrift and allowed to sink when the line went bankrupt a few years ago.

I was pondering the fact that I am now too old to realize a youthful ambition to join the ferry service – literally the only discernible career goal I have ever formed – when I remembered the conversation with my friend.

Staring at the shores of the beautiful, horrible place where I grew up, it seemed inconceivable that I have traveled so far from home.

When I was a little kid I was afraid to visit Seattle because the trip was too long, the buildings too tall. Now I claim to be bored because over the course of eighteen months I have only managed to visit the US, France, Germany, Spain, and the Czech Republic.

Growing up mutilated and poor, I was ashamed and lonely. Now I feel fretful because I do not have enough time with friends scattered across the world.

When the boat docked I dragged myself out of the marina and stood on the curb in front of the cinderblock library built with no windows on the bayside, watching the sun go down over warships, wondering all over again at the ravishing perplexity of the place.

 

4.14.2008 twisted

Last night I met this guy on a sidewalk who said several intentionally irritating things before he offered to show me his tattoo, repeating you know you want it, say you want it.

I stared at him and said No. I don’t.

The other people in the group exclaimed over the design etched on his arm. By this time he had already said half a dozen more offensive things and while I found his palpable need for attention amusing I was not overly impressed with the performance.

So I said Wanna see mine? and pulled my shirt down.

He read the inscription and said Okay, I officially hate you.

I said thank you and Jeffrey, at least, was getting a little nervous about what might happen next when the new fellow touched my face.

In fact, he reached behind my glasses and pressed on the scar bisecting my eyelid. He said I’ll just smooth this down so you can see the world like you did when young.

People who know me – and all sane strangers – are perfectly aware that I can and will break their fingers for lesser transgressions.

I decided to be charitable, given darkness and drunkenness, presuming that he was just cocky and vain and pitiful.

So I grabbed a handful of the belly artfully hidden by his stylish coat, and twisted.

He jumped away, emitting shocked squeaky sounds.

I motioned to my friends, blew a kiss at the annoying man, and departed.

At the end of the block I found Ade hiding in a doorway and snatched him up to venture forth to the Crescent, where I convinced the crew to perform especially for me with the guarantee If you sing Convoy I will love you forever!

 

4.13.2008 opportunity

Yesterday started with a North Portland brunch in my honor organized by Ana Helena and hosted by Stevie Ann. My kid surprised everyone with his excessive height, charming manner, and the fact that he no longer hisses at babies.

Seven years does tend to change a chap.

There is never enough time with these friends, but it was still good to see the Thunder Pumpkin, Maki, Gabriel, Nicole, and the sprinkling of strangers who always show up for these things.

I said goodbye reluctantly and headed north in a torrential rainstorm to meet my mother in the parking lot of a donut shop in Tacoma, where I handed off the kid and my mother thrust stray mail in my hands (this time an invitation to my twentieth high school reunion – apparently I am supposed to take a casserole – yeah right).

Then we got in our respective vehicles and departed.

Horrible traffic gave me the opportunity to demonstrate mad navigational skills, as I do actually know how to get from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge to Seattle without ever touching I-5.

Though the driver was not especially impressed, and denied my request to stop at the B&I with flimsy excuses like stores are closed on Easter.

I arrived in time for sunset in a hotel room with a view of my dire hometown across the water.

Oh, Seattle. How I’ve missed you!

 

4.11.2008 limit

I’m in Portland visiting my abandoned life.

Check it: everyone is quite improbably… seven years older.

The children I knew as babies are all grown up, and Chorus members are in their thirties. There has been a migration from the Mississippi neighborhood to Cully. The Seed building is still standing, but many other landmarks have vanished.

Though aside from these superficial differences, everything is pretty much the same. Chaos, drama, intrigue, music, tea parties, zines.

Last night I was absolutely entranced to find myself in the living room of a house on Emerson at midnight, drinking wine and listening to Polly tell all the stories I missed because we haven’t spoken since I moved away.

Two days is never enough time in this town, but it is the limit of what I can tolerate. I miss this life – these friends – the streets – the river.

 

4.7.2008 entitled

When I was little my mother cleaned hotel rooms and my father pumped gas.

Consequently, I retain a visceral horror of making a mess in rented accommodation, and a profound fondness for hanging out at gas stations.

This week I’m lodging in the Women’s Faculty Club at Berkeley. Does this mean I am dining in the breakfast room, lounging around in the swanky parlor, or enjoying the gardens?

No. I am barricaded in my room, hiding from the housekeeping staff.

Regardless of how much my life changes, I feel like I should be working with my hands, not my head. I always feel seasick when I notice that I am no longer entitled to my place in the underclass.

Though I must admit that while I have anxiety about people cleaning my room, I am wildly amused and gleeful about lodging in the faculty club of a university I was not eligible to attend as a youngster.

The fact that I spent all of my high school years idling in a mix of remedial and vocational classes mattered not one bit in the larger schematic of this life.

A pox on the houses of all the small-minded small-town teachers who tried to convince me I was worthless and stupid as a disabled kid! Curses on the guidance counselors and professors who told me to drop out when I became a teenage mother!

While I am sufficiently contrary that I probably only bothered to accomplish half the shit I’ve engineered as an adult because nobody wanted me to succeed…. I remain appalled at all the needless trouble I had to wade through to get here.

 

4.6.2008 mechanique

Musee Mechanique:

 

4.5.2008 twenty-six

The fourth of April was officially my Death Day Anniversary and I celebrated twenty-six years of unwarranted survival by catching a ride to Stinson Beach, where I fell asleep in the sun, reluctantly waking up after an hour when I remembered that whole “skin cancer” thing.

Though I just draped a shirt over my face and went back to sleep for awhile.

Later I wandered over to the Mission to eat tacos (have I eaten anything else on this trip? No) and meet up with Hiya and Jonathan, who were staging a typewriter protest (or something). We engaged in complicated negotiations to haul five people in two cars across to Oakland for the birthday party of a person I’ve never met nor heard of.

Upon arrival I was introduced as Bee to a woman who replied Lavender?

This startling call and response sort of exchange was repeated two more times before I decided to huddle under a heat lamp in the garden, where a sinister looking fellow announced that he really really adores me, while attempting to stroke my hair.

Then I went and hid behind a cactus.

To say that my social skills are rusty would imply that I had any to begin with, and that is just not true. But when I lived here I was certainly used to people knowing me by reputation and acting flat out weird when they recognized me.

Five years of anonymity in England has been, by comparison, a lovely respite.

 

4.3.2008 pencils

Jaina Bee & her pencil house:

4.1.2009 dress

Huh. Some old photos of a Portland party just turned up. I only wore this once, for about two hours, and suspect it was one of the precious items destroyed by sea water when I moved across the world. I miss my dresses!

I caught the virus bedeviling half the world and have been moaning in a pitiful fashion in between coughing fits. Nobody has been at all sympathetic, because as a friend pointed out, if I’m complaining that means I’m not really sick.

People only worry if I insist that I am fine. That kind of declaration usually means I’m about to end up in the hospital. Or should be there already.

This is a valid observation. Though I wish that I could take cold medicine! Poor me!

While wandering around clutching woefully ineffective cough drops I was thinking about pain and perseverance and was somewhat startled to realize that it has been exactly twenty-six years since I died.

Or will be, next week. I’m not sure of the date (I was busy… dying) but it was certainly early April of 1983 when I was hacked apart and stitched back together crooked.

Although I was young enough to have fanciful notions, and was a big fan of the Time-Life paranormal phenomenon books, there were no tunnels of light, no angels to guide me. In fact, my last thoughts before the surgery were focussed on not waking up: an urgent need for death, wishing the pain away, forever and ever, and then I was gone.

When I woke there was a nurse screaming at me and I was furious that someone had saved a life that was worth nothing and cost too much.

The anger did not dissipate. I did not learn to be thankful, not then, not even when the terminal diagnosis was retracted. This makes sense; the tests and surgeries were really only just starting. At age twelve I had four scars on my body. Before my sixteenth birthday I had accumulated over three hundred. Then I had an accident that smashed the very few functional bits leftover.

Until my late twenties I was reasonably certain the doctors should have let me die.

Now I’ve made it to the advanced and improbable age of thirty-eight I am more perplexed than anything. Sure, I wrote a book about the whole mess, but I do not have any particular wisdom… other than a fantastic ability to spell and define large words.

 

3.25.2009 day

A friend insisted that I listen to Why Do Good Girls Like Bad Guys, presumably because he felt that it was topically relevant.

I was amazed and said You know I’m not …. good, right?

He paused and considered the point, then replied Well. You are ethical.

True! Though that is not at all the same thing.

I was hoping DMX would offer a solution to the mystery, but he has nothing new to contribute aside from some catchy rhymes.

 

3.24.2009 day

Today is Ada Lovelace Day. Among many other intriguing features of her life, Lady Augusta Ada Byron was the (neglected) daughter of Lord Byron, a poet described as mad bad and dangerous to know. Countess Lovelace was however uniquely talented in her own right, working and providing patronage for Charles Babbage – including writing programs for his Analytical Engine.

Our pal Byron was named after an obedient sixth grader his mother taught in a small town in Texas, though anyone who knows him would say he has more in common with the incendiary thinker who supposedly kept a bear in his rooms in Cambridge. Why? Because nobody had thought to specify such actions were against the rules.

The 2009 Lovelace and Needham Awards have been officially announced.

Guess who won the Needham?

Our pal Byron, of course.

 

3.23.2009 brilliant

Two years after Mary died, I have not been able to wash the dress I wore to the funeral.

The problem, I suppose, is that when I emptied her remains into the Puget Sound a fine sprinkling floated back, covering me in a light dusting of dead junkie auntie.

Somehow it seems wrong to shove the garment in a charity bin – though keeping it is nowhere near as macabre as the fact that my daughter is still carrying a pill vial full of the same ashes.

Lately I have been thinking about Mary more than normal, because various events (global, economic, personal, whatever) have made me wonder why so many people fail to understand what they are looking at.

My aunt was brilliant, hilarious – and a bad mother. She was smart, observant – and a thief. I loved and hated her in equal measure, miss her desperately; but I always knew exactly who and what she was.

Nothing that has happened in the current economic crisis, or the scandals sweeping through the lives of people I know, has surprised me at all, for similar reasons. I expect institutions to fulfill stated objectives, and people to act according to their own particular nature. Good, bad, or indifferent.

I’ve never had any relative problem consorting with people who make choices I would never make. Quite the opposite – life would be dull and lonely if restricted to hanging out in comfortable places with people who share my values.

That does not mean that organizations or people do not deserve affection, attention, and management. I’ve bought and sold houses, worked in government, run a business, married unwisely, scampered all over the world, and had a great deal of fun along the way.

I’m not making a value judgment about, oh, anything. I object only to the false naivety that allows people to be shocked to find that banks are banks, real estate is real estate, thugs are thugs, and liars are liars.

 

3.22.2009 taller

Yesterday I took my kid to the Institute of Astronomy for a planetarium show and talk about the Chandra Satellite. The whole thing was classically Cambridge in that it was awkward but sheer genius. Mainly though, I was amazed to realize that my baby was as large as the PhD students running the booths.

Later in the evening he had one of those ominous ravenous sessions that signals a growth spurt…. and this morning my youngest and last child woke up officially half an inch taller than me. He must be five foot seven now – at age twelve – amazing!

He was too busy to take much notice as he is in the midst of making a film with his mates, so I just waved goodbye before spending my day finishing plans for our trip and fiddling around on the river.

Happy Mothering Sunday, if you are the sort who celebrates such things, and also resides in the relevant country!

 

3.10.2009 vermin

I was forced by circumstance to spend the entire evening in a house, and you know, I dislike the things in general. Let alone the English version.

Just as I was about to eat dinner a mouse sauntered across the kitchen.

UGH!

My inherent reckless nature carries me through all sorts of sketchy situations, but I do not like vermin.

Lacking any other solutions (like a cat, a gun, a mousetrap, or Gabriel, who likes to stab them with forks) I decided the only sensible solution was to protect myself with very loud music.

So I dragged in a speaker and blasted Gravy Train at a hole in the wall for a few hours.

 

3.9.2009 subject

Tonight I was invited to another dinner party, but decided to send a bottle of whiskey instead of actually attending.

I’ve hit my limit on academic antics for the week.

Satnam will be cooking, and he is a world-class gastronome, so that is a wee bit sad…. though while he caters to all the sundry paranoid food issues of other guests, he callously disregards my problems with certain spices (we’re the only two working class people in this particular set, so fair game). But I’ve been queasy too often already this year!

On the subject of Scientists I Met In Portland Though See Randomly Elsewhere, I was somewhat startled to find that I showed up in the online diary of someone I ran into during a very early morning breakfast in a cafe just across from the Cours Saleya in Nice, France, awhile back. Mainly because I do not like to be photographed at all, let alone at 8:30 AM.

The photograph captures one of the main reasons I love Europe and wanted to move here in the first place – cafe culture, in the old-fashioned sense, ordering one little bit of something and then sitting and watching the world pass by ….

Even though I can’t drink coffee.

 

3.7.2009 subject

Last night I went to a dinner party with a crew of academics.

They had a special surprise on offer – a man they excitedly described as the worst misogynist, completely anti-feminist!

When they introduced us they prompted him to express his views on the subject, and he started on a stereotypical rant.

I turned away and said to the room at large I’m not going to fuck him, so why should I care?

There was a collective gasp, then silence, then he went away and hid for a few hours.

I cornered and interrogated him in the kitchen later, but he didn’t want to be friends.

 

3.6.2009 clarification

Reply to email requests for clarification of terms:

Yob, defined.

Though as Iain points out in his hilarious new book everyone should buy, the term can now refer to people of any defined gender, and is generally based on loutish behavior rather than simply social class.

Whereas ‘chav’ in street terms is more about style and fashion, the terms are often confused or conflated.

Nobody is ever called a hesher though. That is one of the many linguistic hangovers from my working class youth that has not been useful in adult life.

 

3.6.2009 smile

Earlier today I was wandering around in the spring sunshine and I smiled at a White Van Man.

He dropped his coffee and almost fell out of his vehicle.

Later I was buying groceries and also smiled at the checkout dude – who, when asked for the single school voucher (some wacky loyalty scheme that supports, uh, schools) owed the purchase, handed me half his packet. Something like…. forty vouchers.

If only I had understood this mighty power when I was young and careless! Now I am old and hampered by “ethics” … and nobody has ever accused me of being a tease.

Does that mean I shouldn’t smile?

 

3.5.2009 headlines

Admittedly my standards are low – I grew up on the Kitsap Peninsula and all – but really. This is Cambridge, one of the few stars of the known intellectual universe as acknowledged by posh pretentious people everywhere. So why is the local newspaper so…. bad?

Headlines today:

Blackmail Claim Over Road Toll Funding

Ghost Claim Amid Sewer Repairs Row

Yobs Attack Pet Rabbit in Garden

 

3.4.2009 dial

Remember how I acquired an iphone in late December?

Tonight I needed to call someone and after poking at the device with no success finally held it out to one of my companions and asked Um, how do I dial?

After a baffling instruction session I managed to ring a number previously programmed into the device. Though I did not speak, at least this is progress. Of sorts.

Maybe one day I will even figure out country codes! Though likely only after the system is archaic.

3.3.2009 finally

I finally figured out a practical purpose for facebook: it offers abundant opportunities to test the maxim living well is the best revenge.

Though I didn’t really need assistance with that one.

Something I will need help with, however, is the laborious and expensive process of replacing the furnace in the house I own in Portland.

Gabriel has managed to hire someone. Now to find the money. I know, I know, “responsible” landlords keep a reserve of cash for emergencies. Or at least a credit card. Whereas I don’t even have a bank account.

Sigh.

 

3.2.2009 original

More adventures with home ownership:

The company that services the furnace in my Portland house turned it off because they detected a gas leak, then indicated the whole thing needs to be replaced.

When Gabriel asked for a quote, they replied that they could not install a new appliance because they did not do the “original duct work.”

Huh? It is possible – even probable – that the “original” work dates back to the year the house was built. Uh, 1910 or so? Certainly not more recently than the 60’s, when the place started the long slide toward dereliction.

I’ve owned it since 1996 and during that entire time I have never done any sort of repairs or improvements whatsoever (aside from having the stolen cars towed away). I’ve certainly never done anything with the ducts. In fact, I didn’t even have a thermostat when I lived on the premises!

Gabriel has all the maintenance records to prove that the company who turned it off are the only people who have touched the blasted thing this century, but that does not seem to be sufficient.

Logically, shouldn’t it be possible to just call up a company and get a furnace installed? I’m often thwarted by capitalism, but this whole thing just seems ridiculous.

There are five or six competent adults in the states working on figuring out a solution, and I’m sure that it will be fine in the end, but I’m frustrated that I am too far away to help…. and meanwhile, Gabriel is cold.

 

3.1.2009 isolation

Recently someone nonchalantly commented You have no friends – nobody in Cambridge likes you.

This is approximately true. Rachel, Sarah, and David moved away. Jean is about to go. Paul and Karen are still around, though busy doing whatever it is they do. Even though a hundred guests will turn up for one of my parties, Satnam is the only person who reciprocates invitations.

The shopkeepers at the corner store, farm store, Bacchanalia, Rick the bike mechanic, and the coffee guy in the market square are all up for a congenial chat. Fellow boaters nod hello.

Other than my offspring, that is the sum total of my social outlet.

Living in such a truncated fashion has been fucking with my head – hence the frequent forays to London, where Xtina, Iain, my agent, a dozen new friends, peripatetic visitors, and fun are located. Though that is obviously just a temporary solution. Unless or until I make a more permanent move, I still have to deal with the reality of life in this small city on a daily basis.

The other evening I was chatting with some pompous academic types (this is a cultural subset, I have no particular problem with academics as a larger sociological phenomenon) and I said something offhand about the fact that I am not friendly.

One of the people interrupted and said No, you are extremely social and charming…. with people you enjoy.

The underlying and unstated truth? When I encounter a posh accent I am filled with loathing and a strong urge to smack someone. This is the main reason I have taken to listening to an ipod at all times – the accent is hard to escape in the town that provides the definition of Establishment.

Obviously a character flaw, but who knew? This hazard never occurred to me before I moved here. I was the spoiled and fancy one back home.

Something else I’ve noticed after a couple of years of amazed bewilderment: my acute powers of nonverbal self-defense make no impression on beggars in this city.

While nobody in the states would ever panhandle me, the hardcore homeless (and there are only about a dozen permanent residents living rough hereabouts) see me as one of their own. They don’t even try a scam – they just expect me to share, as if paying duty to a fellow traveller.

They are of course correct – and some of the nicest people I’ve met in this country.

How peculiar and interesting.

None of this, however, has at all alleviated my spring trip anxiety. I have exactly three weeks in the states (or anywhere beyond the boundaries of the UK) between now and …. the mythical date I acquire a British passport – quite likely two years hence.

Given these parameters, it is fairly important that I do my best to maximize not just familial responsibilities (visiting dying grandma is on the top of the list), and see as many friends as possible, but also get in enough time doing the things that truly make me happy.

Like riding the ferries around the Puget Sound. Over and over, for no good reason.

Or just sitting on the docks at Illahee or Southworth, alone, staring at the water, for endless hours.

Four and a half years of brutal social isolation has given me abundant time to work, think, and figure stuff out. At the same time I have grown convinced that I do not belong anywhere, and that is, in fact, true.

Though this week I compiled a list and started to write to the folks I might see during the trip.

I was not expecting much and was thus amazed to instantly have offers of places to stay in NYC, Boston, Providence, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle.

It is not at all clear where I will end up, but I am truly humbled to have access to so much hospitality.

 

3.1.2009 hit

This morning my kid wandered by wearing aviator shades and a false mustache and I started laughing, then insisted he sit down and watch Sabotage.

Of course, he thought that I was insane, and switched to a P. G. Wodehouse tape posthaste.

While I have not followed their progress closely, I maintain a special affection for the Beastie Boys, because way back in 1984 I watched them open for Madonna on the first night of her first tour.

I was nearly delirious from cancer, malnutrition, and the general physical strain of the treatments, and remember nothing about the main part of the concert except rolling my forehead back and forth against a rail, wishing to be well, or dead.

The one exception to this was noticing the Boys were not a hit.

Instead, they were booed off the stage, screaming back at the angry audience FUCK YOU SEATTLE!

Since that marvelous evening I have never listened to the band except in similar situations. I think they are a perfectly appropriate soundtrack for horrifying medical treatments. Why not!