Bee Lavender

This little critter motored all the way up Jesus Ditch in about 2 minutes, parents in hot pursuit…. oh, babies!

 

4.28.2008 ingredients

I’ve spent the better part of a week traipsing across all the known universe to assemble basic ingredients for what I think of as normal meals. Guess what was the hardest to locate? Peanuts. Imagine.

 

4.24.2008 action

Late last week I received a letter from the primary school my child attends informing that, despite a planned national strike action, our teachers had independently decided to keep the facility open. I went reeling around the sidewalk in astonishment and horror, then exclaimed Fuck that! at an indecent decibel level.

Looking about for a comrade who might share my anger I found only complacent posh faces who claim no historic or current affiliation with trade unionism (until the day they find they’ve given away too much, and that realization will be selfish at best).

I marched away, muttering under my breath that no child of mine will cross a picket line, even if metaphorically.

Every morning I call in his absence with the stated reason On strike. Then we wander around the city doing educational, wholesome things while I lecture at length about collective action.

The headline in the Times catches exactly what is wrong with the public debate over this issue:  “Striking teachers ‘feel no guilt’ over disruption”

Why should they feel guilt? Teachers deserve secure contracts and a reasonable standard of living. They look after our children!

 

4.24.2008 chemicals

The first mail I opened this morning was from a prestigious research facility in California. They would like my participation in a trial to determine whether a medication approved by the FDA for other purposes can prevent and treat skin cancer.

This is the second request from the team this year because, as the letter stated, the first study ended in December when the report of possible adverse side effects in patients became known.

Oh, what a surprise. I’ve lost track of how many times research scientists have asked me to participate in similar efforts, going way back to 1984, when they offered to burn my entire epidermis off with massive doses of chemicals even then suspected of causing birth defects. Did they? Why yes!

These proposals are always phrased to inspire my spirit of public service, with a small nod toward economic reward – they’ll pay travel plus thirteen hundred dollars for my time.

Presuming, of course, I take the drugs as directed and provide tissue samples.

How does the value of my tumors compare to the current cost of oil, or gold?

How do I reconcile the fact that no study conducted to date has made any progress whatsoever in treating my disease, and all have caused deleterious side-effects?

I possess the most severe recorded case of this particular genetic cancer syndrome. The tumors were visible at age three and I had between three and four hundred removed before age sixteen (I got bored and stopped counting after awhile).

But even with so many scars I have zero interest in the these research studies. Sure, the biopsies have been an unwelcome and sometimes horrifying element of my life. Many of the scars (particularly those on my face) are disfiguring.

However: when the alternative is untested chemicals that can ruin my health in a hundred unknown ways, guess what?

I choose the scars. I choose mutilation.

I would rather be cut than cursed.

 

 

4.23.2008 analysis

Yesterday my son came home from school with a plain, unmarked envelope containing a pamphlet titled Why Your Child’s Weight Matters and a permission slip to put him on a scale. We’re not being specifically targeted; this is an NHS public health initiative aimed at collecting data on every single eleven year old child in the land.

The enclosed literature starts with the assertion Evidence suggests overweight children are highly likely to become overweight adults, with health problems getting worse as they get older.

Six additional pages drone on about obesity, bullying, and healthy eating habits. This might seem innocuous but, check it, the entire thing presumes that all families receiving the circular have a problem.

They offer assurances that the tests will be performed privately (admittedly a big upgrade over stateside scoliosis screening which if memory serves was conducted cattle-call style), but I am incensed at the fundamental view of the literature. And you know what? I’m allowed. Why? Because, aside from being a parent and a wayward pundit specializing in the politics of family life, I also have an advanced degree and whole early career doing this kind of policy analysis.

The best of these sorts of studies are conducted in neutral terms, implying zero judgment. You can’t say “We’re just wondering about the statistics!” while also serving up several pages worth of exercise tips.

On a very simple level I am tempted to refuse permission for a different reason: my son would skew the record. Quite apart from the fact that he is not British, the boy is a rangy bean pole of a kid, the youngest in his class and the tallest in the school. He is easily four inches taller than the headmistress, for goodness sake.

This kid was breastfed in infancy, a vegan (by his own choice) until age seven or so, and currently eats mostly vegetarian, all organic, mainly homemade meals. He is allowed sugar (unlike his sister at the same age) but only because it would be impossible to keep up with his rapid growth if I didn’t shovel in ice cream on a regular basis.

If you can imagine, watching him grow is a lot like pulling silly putty; he is a round ball for half a second then stretches and stretches and stretches. Yeah, he eats the occasional bowl of chips (in the states we know them as fries) but I’m an insufferable, annoying, wholesome food, demanding sort of mother.

We’re extremely, maniacally careful about nutrition, and judicious about exercise. We go outside to have fun; we love our walks, bike rides, skating. We don’t own a car – all transit and chores are conducted with real physical exertion.

Our life together revolves around a boat, for goodness sakes! He jumps nimbly from the roof to the lock, hauls the anchor, holds the vessel securely at the shore…. all requiring a peak condition of form that I simply see as natural.

If the NHS wants to find a group of ill-informed rubbish consumers, it would be wise to exempt us from the study. Though of course, my well-behaved public health self says we’re a diverse community and the entirety of that truth should be reflected in the statistics.

If I believed they could pull it off without shaming anyone I might even sign the forms.

 

 

4.22.2008 nostalgia

…. There must be millions of aging males, now slipping into their anecdotage, who recall their Willie Baxter period with affection, and who remember some similar journey into ineptitude, in that precious, brief moment in life before love’s pages, through constant reference, had become dog-eared, and before its narrative, through sheer competence, had lost the first, wild sense of derring-do. -E.B. White

Last night I watched Stripes and found the whole thing just as silly and unbelievable and weirdly enjoyable as it was when first viewed (and whatever happened to P.J. Soles?).

This cinematic choice is likely what later kicked off a long involved dream in which one of my teenage boyfriends returned to attempt a reconciliation with the child we created. His efforts included an offer of Disney adventures, approximately ten years after such a ruse had any hope of being successful. In the dream my daughter just rolled her eyes and took off with friends, leaving me to have an awkward conversation with the estranged other parent.

Of course I am a pragmatist even in a dream state; asleep or awake, I bear no grudges, and found the encounter both creepy and hugely amusing.

Why? Because in real life he was always hilarious – one of the funniest and smartest people I’ve ever met. His youthful exploits were not just unlawful, they were genius in both scope and intent. He was also changeable, a rare trait: over the couple of months we lived together he metamorphosed from being a punk kid, the suspect or witness in several capital murder cases, to an Airborne Ranger.

Then he walked out of our shared life. Then he reinvented himself. Then he did it again. And again. And again. I wouldn’t recognize him now if we passed each other on the street.

His skills as a social chameleon are equal to my own, but I have doggedly remained true to the idealism of my youth and the commitments I made when my daughter was born. He has moved through too many different lives and political affiliations to list.

Over the couple of decades I raised my daughter he sent maybe three or four birthday presents, never called at other holidays. His absence puzzled me, but I didn’t think about it often, or talk about it at all. There was no point dwelling on the issue: it was my choice to have children. I never cared what the fathers thought about the pregnancies, so it isn’t fair to expect them to support or love the resulting offspring.

For eighteen years there was no communication. The situation was stable, and vacant.

Then, moments after my daughter became a fully and officially autonomous adult, her biological father finally wrote – not to her but to me, invoking the pet names used in the first flush of our romance.

This initial sortie proved the start of a trend: over the course of this year every single person who has ever fancied themselves in love with me has been in touch (except the one who would eat his teeth if he made the attempt – and he wrote to James, which is the same difference).

The reasons vary somewhat, but seem to be predicated on some kind of nostalgia. This mostly doesn’t bother me – I am still quite fond of a few of them. But the encounters run the range from the minor – a fellow mysteriously collected during adventures with Ana Erotica who checks in every few months to see if I’ve changed my mind about sleeping with him (and, regardless of eyewitness accounts that he has a stupendous penis and delightfully macabre hidden tattoos, no is still the answer). To the major – most worryingly, a friend who appeared to get over his infatuation more than a decade ago, but recently declared lifelong love while I stuck my fingers in my ears and hummed.

From what I can gather this sort of thing is happening to lots of my age peers, to varying degrees. I suspect it is the same urge that takes people to their twentieth high school reunions: just something developmental that creeps up when youth finally vanishes and it is time to review the choices that were made. But, you know, the choices were made.

Nobody has ever broken up with me, so it isn’t really my brief to claim superior moral ground. My exes could provide endless lists of my callousness, usually taking the form of clear-eyed and preternaturally chipper investigations, complete with notebook.

The fact that I ended a marriage with the calmly stated but flippant advice that the young man in question should consider reading a self-help book seems, even to me, both eerie and cruel.

Though what else was I supposed to say? I was twenty years old, sick of being married to someone who lived two thousand miles away, and not even remotely distressed; if anything, I felt dizzy anticipation of a freedom I would instantly squander.

The end of a relationship is in some sense a small death, because the bond between two people has its own strange and tenuous existence independent of each individual. Growing up sick I learned caution, to keep something of myself always reserved for the next crisis. I’ve never had a crush on anyone, never experienced unrequited love, never fallen in love before the other party fell in love with me – and I doubt that I ever could.

I’ve never had my heart broken, no matter how extreme the circumstances, no matter how much I mourned a loss, though I know that I have broken hearts, inadvertently but also on purpose. If I had the choice I would not be a creature of such extremes, but my DNA dictates that this life will be perilous and short. This doesn’t bother me – I do not lament what cannot be changed – but it scares the shit out of everyone who has ever ventured close enough to see the facts clearly.

When I was younger this element of my life was scourge, anathema – youth prefers immortality, and I represented the opposite. I broke up with most of the exes when I realized they would never be able to handle a true crisis. In the case of my first husband, it was very clear – he took off at the first hint of the illness that nearly killed me in 1989. He wasn’t there for any of the gruesome medical drama, or the birth of his child.

Whereas my first sort-of-accidental date with the second husband involved a ride to the hospital, where I had radioactive isotope tests. Then we went to see Malcolm X. Romantic? No. Realistic? Yes.

People in their late thirties and early forties get at least a hint of mortality, and plenty of people have encountered incontrovertible proof. They have lost parents, peers, been sick, cared and grieved sufficiently to finally understand. Unfortunately, I never had the gift of ignorance.

All these years, through all this trouble, I have understood exactly what was happening. I see, and I remember, and I use the raw materials to build something new and different.

A couple of people who claimed to love me admitted that they wandered away out of fear – that I would die, or that it was too difficult to parent my eccentric offspring, or that they could not have my attention in exactly the way they wished.

The latter is quite perceptive; I am not an attainable goal. I am a person, with lots of problems, and a primary stated allegiance to my children. The depth of that commitment is the element that will never change. I have my priorities sorted.

When the ex-husband sent a message last year I was appalled and erased it without reply. Not because I have any personal problem with him. No, something else: I erased the message, deleted his address, because he had a whole lifetime to establish a relationship with the baby he never knew. That was his prerogative – eighteen years ago.

I’ve loved and raised the girl no matter what the challenge or consequence, and if he wants to know me again, he will have to find his way through her. Furthermore, he will have to be accountable to her grown-up self, and answer her questions. They’re harder now than they were at age five.

Hence the dream. I have a remarkably high tolerance for chaos and a sincere love of excessive behavior. My expectations are consequently low (obviously, I would not expect saintly conduct from a person picked up in criminal court) but my ambitions are huge. I know that people can do all sorts of surprising things, can reinvent themselves, can create wonder out of horror.

Perhaps the brown-eyed boy I loved before I was grown enough to understand the consequences will find his way back to us. Maybe not. I really don’t care, one way or the other. I honor what we had together, and what came from it. My daughter is my physical clone but she has the strange humor and eccentric intellect of the man who did not raise her.

You can’t separate one from another – she exists as the product of everything, and nothing. She is extraordinary.

It was a privilege to know her as she grew.

 

4.18.2008 rules

Yesterday one of my friends commented about the new Rock Camp documentary, with the note that she had a crush on STS. I replied that STS is definitely crush worthy, then wandered off without any further reflection.

Somewhere in the night my sub-conscious took up the issue, and I had a long unwieldy dream about trying to get to a show featuring The Haggard, the Curse, Harum Scarum and (a little off in geographical terms but I’ve only seen them play in Portland) Submission Hold.

Now that would be a show – though in real life I would probably be drafted to run the merch tables as opposed to, say, dance in the front row. She-Mo is much more my speed (along with being a favorite of my son) and I was at their last surprise performance in a basement a couple of years ago, but for the most part I avoid live music.

In the dream the effort to get to the concert was epic, and never realized – always just a bit further, later, beyond. When I woke up this morning I was in a funky mood, missing Portland and my friends. Though the dream itself was fairly accurate – STS and I mostly share missed connections and notes left next to breakfast plates at the 19th Street House, always promising next time.

I keep her zine on the boat, the only remnant of that life to have made the cut aside from the latest Craphound (thank you, Chloe) and a few of Stella’s cards. Not much to show for six years in a city, but then again, it has been six years since I left.

The tonic for homesickness is obviously a trip home, but this time the cure is beyond reach. Onward.

Today should be interesting – dinner with locals – and I need to ponder the etiquette of whether or not to take wine.

I just don’t understand the rules here.

 

 

4.14.2008 local

Earlier this week my kid went on a field trip to the Houses of Parliament. The class was scheduled to be back at six in the afternoon, and since they are always late and I am always early I took up a perch at the pub across the street to wait.

I was minding my own business and reading a newspaper when one of the other parents from the school materialized at my left elbow to invite me to join a group of folks waiting for their children. Mystified, I followed her to the other room, where I found myself ensconced in a merry little scene lasting no more than fifteen minutes and including all manner of bewildering exchanges, not least the fact that these people talked to me.

For the first time ever.

When the children arrived all the parents rushed away except the one who had extended the initial invite. I must have looked as baffled as I felt because she turned to me and said Those are the most standoffish people I’ve ever met in my life.

I laughed and said I thought the aloofness of the crew was down to their being British, but she shook her head and pointed out she shares that characteristic but still manages to be polite and friendly.

This presented an etiquette problem; how to discuss the fact that the other parents have often been quite rude, when I did not know the woman I was speaking to? The problem was solved by the person in question reciting a list of grievances against the culture of the school – a very nice place for the children but wintry and vicious for many of the parents.

I spent a lot of time shaking my head in wonder; she assured me that even after the pub invitation, nobody would look me in the eye let alone talk to me next morning at the school gate.

Of course, she was right – back to being a pariah instantly, hurray!

I’ve really appreciated this aspect of life in the UK; back in the states people always expected me to, you know, stage fundraisers or run the school or whatever. Here everyone thinks I’m suspect (and dirty) and subsequently I have lots more spare time. Though the pub encounter has had one unexpected side-effect: I seem to have made a friend. She even invited me over for dinner this weekend.

This is the very first time a non-academic local has extended such a courtesy. What a peculiar town.

 

4.13.2008 homesick

Of course on the other end of the friendship spectrum there are those who are much beloved and faraway. Between the rushing about, administrative imbroglios, and allergies, I have been sadly neglectful of some correspondence.

I apologized to Mark Mitchell, who objected to the way I characterized my lack of attention: You’re never a bad Bee. You’ve made everyone agree that whatever you want to do is the thing to do! I’m glad your family harasses you, or you’d be impossible!

Sniff. I miss him quite dreadfully – and the rest of the crew – and the Bus Stop (RIP) – and my house on Beacon Hill – and the mountains and water and and and…..

I do not regret moving away, but I miss Seattle intensely. Four years later, I’m more homesick than ever.

 

4.12.2008 fun

The other night I went out with David, back in town to work on his dissertation. The chosen venue (selected by some of his mates) was for some obscure reason B Bar. Otherwise known as the local meat market – hookup central – a venue I had never planned to visit.

Why? It is hard to accurately explain or describe. I’ve been to dive bars, glam bars, gay bars, every sort of elite or reckless establishment you could possibly imagine, and can say authoritatively that B Bar is the trashiest place I’ve ever been. In fact I would wager money there is nothing like it in America. The experience does not translate.

B Bar is brazenly, brilliantly Z list British – the Britain of Jade Goody, Kerry Katona, Celebrity Big Brother, and binge drinking. My impression was of a sea of fake breasts randomly attached to hair extensions and spray tanned bodies, actively and creepily ogled by bald blokes on the pull. There might have been pheromones in the air but it was impossible to know given the fog of cheap perfume and aftershave that made me sneeze over and over again.

David is a fine upstanding family man and also currently enslaved to a thesis, so he sat with his back to the room as we caught up and ignored the antics of the people we were meeting. Once the other academics absconded our remaining companion listed sideways in a fugue state of over-stimulation, nearly lodging himself in the cleavage of a girl at the next table.

We west coast refugees exited the building in a state of shock, only to be confronted by the red velvet ropes at the Fez. In a word, no. Local lore says what happens at the Fez stays at the Fez and as far as I’m concerned this translates to a permanent injunction against attendance.

It might appear from recent posts that my entire life is just one long party interspersed with the occasional boating adventure but that is far from the truth. The most exciting events of my week? I consulted a tax accountant about the returns that need to be filed in two different nations.

Then, check it: I interviewed immigration attorneys – and hired one. It is a sick truth that I was endlessly thrilled by these bureaucratic encounters. Next up: I need to account for every single day I’ve been away from the United Kingdom over the course of four years.

No problem. In fact, this is my favorite sort of task – how fun!

 

 

4.11.2008 mutuality

I rushed back from London earlier than planned to meet a friend flying in from Italy.

When last seen, Dani was a Portland based projectionist, Chorus member, one of the hosts of the annual Pisces party; she was still dating Mickey (the filmmaker, not my cousin).

Before that we both went to Evergreen and our years overlapped – she even worked at the child care center, though we don’t remember each other. We both lived in the same NW scenes for years, and moved away around the same time, never keeping track of each other but somehow often ending up in the same place.

Back then it would never have occurred to me that any of my friends would veer from the ethos of that time and place, let alone appear one day as newly minted PhD student from an Italian university visiting the Cambridge History of Science Department.

Her particular research topic concerns trans identity and she was inevitably disappointed at the doctrinaire opinions expressed by some (obviously, not all) local experts, because, essentially, they don’t get it.

I was not surprised; I’m definitely the freakiest thing going in this town, which is idiotic, and the only person I know who actively talks about queer culture. Even as an observer – and yes, this is ironic given my lifelong refusal to admit to any identity whatsoever.

It is just the nature of the place – I would never bother elsewhere – consider my efforts taking it for the team. Plus nobody can take my kids away now; one is grown-up, the other too old to be at risk if my opinions are deemed scandalous. Hurray for us. That, however, is not the point, and it was incredibly satisfying to hang out with an old friend after a too-long hiatus.

The visit was brief but filled to bursting with enormously enlightening talks about our beloved former North Portland homes, the anti-intellectualism of that community, the good bad and painful process of leaving. It wasn’t all heavy discussions – we went through the inevitable list of food we never knew we would miss, things we’ve had to learn to cook, ingredients that are impossible to source.

We talked about the various sorts of annoyances unique to traveling as a woman in Europe (the attention is quite horrifying if you are accustomed to living in a place where people don’t make eye contact). The smallest things become enormous when you leave home – we’re both the sort who saunter forth with ripped clothing, in cultures where that does not translate.

At one point we were in a pub with a bunch of academics including a super macho dude I met in Spain last year. Dani and I created a little oasis of conversation in the middle of the academic chatter, ranging over all the juicy stories from home (and they can be quite shocking, even in a group of people who pride themselves on not caring), presuming that nobody nearby would hear or care.

Much later I learned that macho dude was listening, and quite improbably knows the punks in a certain eastern city (who are of course intertwined with PDX). I should have reflected on my surroundings and remembered the saying Loose Lips Sink Ships. Though I doubt he could have kept track of the names – half those we were talking about have transitioned to a different gender since we first met.

Beyond that I have probably solidified my (false!) local reputation as a femme fatale, which is neither desirable nor deserved. The fact that I lack mainstream aesthetics does not mean I want anyone to hit on me. Especially here. Ick.

To avoid future entanglements, I have officially decided never to go out again. Though that pledge might only last as long as, well, tomorrow.

Talking to Dani was the most amazing tonic – a strange but hugely nourishing combination of here, there, then, now, next. In my life there have been very few people who have understood exactly where I’m coming from, what I’m talking about, what I can’t quite articulate.

This sort of mutuality is not the result of love, friendship, congenial companionship – people have loved me hugely without ever understanding anything about me. It is something else, a similar set of views, an historical understanding of various cultural threads, with some kind of edge, like the tearaway spirit that can fling a person far from everything they once knew. Just because they want to see what happens.

I wasn’t expecting much from the visit but Danny has officially become My New Favorite Person (I’ve Known Ten Years).

 

 

4.10.2008 try

Yesterday I started my annual effort to plant a garden, which despite my name and a long line of maternal gardening experts, is always ineffective – to the point of slaughter.

I never know exactly what I do wrong; I start with such good intentions, and everything goes awry.

In Portland I chalked it up to the alkaline nature of the soil, or too much shade, or… something… but the very same garden that never thrived under my care is flourishing for Danielle and Gabriel. In fact, they are such good caretakers, I left all of my houseplants with them too – and the last time I visited Danielle warned me off even petting them! I am a notorious plant killer.

Yet still I try; yesterday this included a long bike ride out to the big block stores to purchase compost and a happy afternoon sitting on the banks of the river potting an assortment of shrubs. I went with sturdy things in the hopes that they will be impervious to my attentions: a lavender bush, some heather, a weird one I’ve never heard of with red blossoms. There are still violas, and trailing lobelia, which should last at least a few weeks (crossing fingers).

When I bought the boat oh so many years ago the previous owner agreed to leave his big planter if I kept growing what he had established: a lawn. This was easy, since it just meant ignoring the grass as it died off and grew back. But now it is choked with too many roots and needs a proper clean-up.

When I asked my kid what we should grow to replace it, he replied a new lawn, of course – so I guess I’ll have to go out in search of grass seed. Maybe this year will prove more productive than others.

Though I dare not purchase those tomato seedlings I’ve been eyeing – that just wouldn’t be nice. For the plants.

 

 

4.8.2008 consolation

I’ve been felled by a dread curse: seasonal allergies. Oh, woe is me!

This happened around the same time last year, and it was eventually so bad the British anesthesiologist I was partying with in Asbury Park NJ diagnosed me with asthma and spent the weekend sternly ordering me to stop laughing. As if I could; life is far too amusing, even when my brain has been replaced by green goo!

The cocktail of drugs keeping me alive is incompatible with sinus meds, and no certified herbalist has come up with a safe effective solution, so I will just trudge forward, wheezing.

If memory serves I was quite unexpectedly cured once when I wandered off to New Mexico, but my next planned trip to a hot climate is Andalucia in June. That trip will be great fun, not least because I just learned that Natalia and Javi (you might remember them from the Himsa crew) are moving to Cadiz next month. Friends from home, a short flight away, hurray!

Oh, and Cambridge offers this brilliant consolation – swans nesting, and the first ducklings of the year:

 

 

4.6.2008 schemes

During the trip to London I had dinner with the East London Massive and we hatched hectic secret schemes of a scientific nature that will unfurl across the next decade – watch this space.

At the end I didn’t even blink over the fact that the meal cost approximately what I would have spent on six months rent back in grad school. England has finally broken me – I don’t even do the mental exchange rate any longer! Also, I didn’t pay for the dinner, so whatever:

 

 

4.6.2008 connection

One night a dozen or so friends gathered to celebrate a birthday. We were at Jaguar Shoes for a few hours and this year there were no ice throwing incidents, and (as far as I know) no sketchy hookups – mostly because the ratio of North American to British was skewed toward people who have passports in this nation.

Though someone did confide that they’d once had sex in the toilet at one of my parties; c’mon, people! Toilet sex is nasty in a bad way!

Later my glamorous and gorgeous literary agent aka Susan turned up and informed me that she has given up chastising me about work. I laughed and apologized for not earning her more money, before pointing out that my stuff is destined to remain forever underground. Lucky she likes me as a person, eh? Other agents would drop my contrary self but she just sighs and strokes my hair.

The bar was a crush of Shoreditch hipsters packed in so tight we took up a defensive position against one wall, where I was extremely pleased to catch up with Xtina. She is one of the only people I know who can listen to me rattle on about creepy medical procedures without being at all fazed – a rare and immeasurably valuable trait. Plus she is hilarious, hugely talented, and has the best hair ever. What more could you ask for in a friend?

Most of the group vanished around midnight, when D’s smoking hot Not Girlfriend (the “not” qualifier before girlfriend is his preferred description, emphasized with waving arms) showed up. There is a whole rash of this going around in my social world lately, and I remain puzzled.

If you sleep with a person, spend all of your spare time with a person, and (in this case) live with a person, surely there is a word to describe the connection?

With the teenagers it makes sense, since their lives are so confusing: I’m sure they have no relative clue of what they are doing. With this guy, not so much, except maybe insofar as he doesn’t want me to tell whoever he is hitting on that he has a girlfriend. This is not especially well reasoned, since I will then refer to her as That Girl You Are Fucking.

Susan and I were highly amused to watch as the Not Girlfriend flirted with Byron, while the Not Boyfriend lurked about looking distressed.

The presence of the girl clearly inhibited D’s normal routine of trawling the crowd, but with her attention distracted by My Actual Husband, he had nothing better to do except once again attempt to talk to me about literature. This never goes well.

Later Byron claimed that he had not been flirting, and Susan and I shrieked with laughter. I replied At least you acted better than last year!

Byron asked What happened last year?

Susan replied You picked me up and rocked me and sang a lullaby!

Byron was astonished, but yes, it is true – yet another reason why other agents would steer clear of my company: I exert no control over the antics of the mad scientists. In fact, I find them amusing.

The evening mutated once again and I found myself dragged through the vomit-steaked streets of the city to one club after another, where, mysterious and surprising above all things, to go dancing.

 

 

4.5.2008 day

Guess where I went yesterday? To a faraway riverside marina next to a pub founded hundreds of years before my country of birth, to pick up my boat! Oh, how I missed her!

The trip started at the confluence of the rivers Cam and Great Ouse and proceeded at an orderly five miles per hour back to the city:

 

 

4.1.2008 face

Last week was marked out by a cascade of critical tasks like obtaining a boat safety certificate, mooring permit, and waterways license – all coagulating with the same deadline (as two agencies simultaneously required the original and only aforesaid certificate).

On top of all that it became urgently necessary to reduce all the storage I have not looked at since moving here – quite an enormous and humbling task for many reasons, not least the fact that cleaning is not within my repertoire. I can unpack, organize, and assemble, but am never inclined to throw anything away if it might someday prove useful.

That is why, opening boxes, I found (amongst other things) a yellow scarf purchased at a thrift store on South Tacoma Way in the late seventies and worn exactly once. And the shirt I wore the first time I pitched to VC. And boxes upon boxes of clothing discarded by various people – in many cases, not even people I know.

Purging was necessary but also entirely stressful. Finding my old journals just underscored the fact; Paris, Rome, Tallinn, Helsinki, Trento, Venice, Nice, Barcelona, Amsterdam, Granada, looping jaunts through the United States and United Kingdom, the occasional and always bizarre stay in Canada: my life over the last six years has been at best frenetic.

Remembering that fact is puzzling, and helpful. The sheer physical effort of shifting a life, however, is torture. By the end of the week this is what I looked like:

The morning after that photo I was shuffling around brushing my teeth when I looked in a mirror and dimly perceived something moving. I poked, assuming it was an optical illusion, but no – even without my glasses on I knew it was lice. I commenced hopping around shrieking in rage and horror. Byron told me to act my age.

But my advanced age does not, by default, involve bouts of head lice! Any parent who has been visited by the pestilence knows how hard it is to treat in this chemically saturated age. We’re essentially back to ye olden days of hopeless herbal remedies and tedious comb-outs.

Difficult in the best scenario, but remember, I have excessively long hair. And limited washing facilities. As I crouched dragging a metal comb through the knotty mess I cursed the laziness or whimsy that persuaded me to live without haircuts for decades. If there had been scissors within reach I would have hacked it all off right then.

But there was no time, because to round out the hideous week I had to rush off to the teaching hospital for one of my routine tests. This particular one involves a panoramic x-ray of my jaw to determine if there are tumors hidden away deep down inside. In the past these have been quite devastating, taking out large portions of bone. To date I have had perhaps six surgeries, with experts in several teaching hospitals dolefully informing me that I would need to be followed in specialized clinics the rest of my life.

These things do not upset me in principle – I am not worried about the results, fretful about the interaction with surgeons. For the most part I am laissez-faire to a fault about my health.

What I cannot stand, even now, after all these years, is the test itself. Forehead braced against a post, chin held in place with a plastic guide, teeth clenched on the bit, I am required to be still and hold my breath as the machine makes a steady perambulation of my head. It only lasts for twelve short seconds – nothing at all in the course of a life – but if you grew up in therapy culture or have post traumatic stress disorder you will probably recognize this as a trigger event.

I’m tough, I’m resilient, I can face down anything. But in those twelve seconds I relive fear, pain, loathing, humiliation, a surging wave of memories of blood, surgical dressings, vomit, infection.

The only thing that keeps my face in the grip of the machine is the knowledge that they will continue until they have a perfect image.

When the consultant called me into the examination room he pointed to the X-ray proof of devastation, still visible in shadowy traces where bone and teeth were pulverized by disease. I knew at a glance that the result was fine, no new tumors – these things are easy to read.

What was more surprising was the fact that the doctor looked from the image to my face and then said But you don’t look like someone with this syndrome.

My eyebrows went up but I resisted rolling my eyes. What did he mean by the comment? That I lack a distinctive lantern jaw found in a minority of those diagnosed, and that my original surgeons sacrificed my joints to avoid slashing my face open. The point is however mostly rhetorical since this fellow, even if a world renowned expert, has probably only met three or four other people with the syndrome. If that.

I retorted I don’t have a bifid rib either and he looked even more startled.

He recited the test results; exactly as I already knew from a cursory glance, my jaw is clear. I started to gather my things and said nonchalantly Awesome, thanks!

This was clearly not expected because he replied Erm, what?

I epated Awesome! Thanks!

He shook his head and delivered a final announcement that made me sit back down abruptly: he informed me that I no longer need to be seen in clinic.

Twenty-four years after the definitive diagnosis, seventeen years after the most recent jaw surgery, against all known medical literature and the advice of any previous clinician, I am officially – not cured, never that, but free.

Not liberated from the disease itself, but instead from the experience of being a prized specimen, at least in regards to the function of the lower half of my face. This is only one test of several, and I’ll still need to do it, but in the future I can go to the bright shiny environs of a dental office.

My stateside surgeons would be appalled, since this advice contraindicates the literature, but I am thrilled beyond measure.

There are so many things to love about this country.

My scars are visible to anyone who looks, but the people who try claim they cannot see them; whether the traces of surgery and sorrow are hidden by artifice or attitude makes no difference.

I left the hospital and raced away to London, leaving behind mess and drama, turning a damaged and hopeful face resolutely to new adventures. Oh, and I decided not to cut my hair after all:

Whether you abide by the orthodoxies of a major world religion, prefer to recognize the Anglo-Saxon goddess Eostre, or think the whole thing is annoying, today is a moveable feast celebrating the turning of a season – my favorite sort of holiday! From snowy Cambridge to you, many felicitations of hope this spring.

 

3.22.2008 underground

Today I went to an indie press / comics convention that was reminiscent of the Portland Zine Symposium… the first year.

I was completely shocked – London is an enormous city, famed for centuries of cultural revolutions! Where are the kids, where is the underground?

Iain is the expert on tap for such questions. His reply to my plaintive query? I think everyone fled to Germany or Bristol due to rents and the price of beer.

Fair enough.

While I have a romantic attachment to the idea, I guess that I don’t really need to move to London, eh?

In other local news, I just realized that nobody in my vicinity clamored to decorate eggs this year, for the first time in my entire adult life.

My offspring are tall, creative, outgoing people who launch their Easter holidays by going to conventions, and handing out fliers for their work, rather than dipping boiled eggs in cups of food coloring.

This is overwhelmingly sad, and completely amazing. I am honored beyond words to know them.

 

3.22.2008 genius

I was rummaging around trying to figure out when I decided to move to the UK and stumbled across all sorts of interesting trivia.

For instance, according to my journal, I met Gordon in person exactly four years ago today. How fortuitous! He has proved to be an able tour guide and fast friend in this whole unraveling irksome journey toward becoming human.

While most people find my robotic, emotionally disconnected obliviousness exasperating at best, he has always answered my questions without condescension or annoyance. Or at least, without displaying those traits.

He even taught me how to talk on the phone! For this and just for the sheer genius of his existence, I extend a sincere thank you.

 

3.18.2008 friends

Some of my friends run this thing called Rock N Roll Camp for Girls and someone made a documentary about it. You should go check it out.

 

3.17.2008 timing

Every single time I think that I should call to check on my boat, the phone rings and the extremely energetic marina owner is on the line.

He keeps apologizing for the delay, which surprises me; he is certainly more solicitous of my feelings about the boat than anyone I hang out with – they all find the subject tedious.

Though I’m sure you, dear readers, are eager to know the news: she is out of drydock and all repairs are finished except one, waiting for a part on order.

This means I might get her back as early as next week – perfect timing for an Easter holiday cruise through the Fens!

 

3.16.2008 morality

Last weekend I went out with Jean and a recently arrived academic transplant, and what a treat he proved to be: a writer, art critic, media studies maven and, best of all, North American.

Oh, glorious good luck! A new friend is always great fun, but one with a similar vocabulary and set of interests is a rarity in this town. During the course of the conversation someone told him about my memoir, punctuating remarks about the quality and merits of the book with She has something like a thousand scars on her body!

I frowned and corrected No, just shy of four hundred.

My new companion looked disbelieving, and the others told him to take a look. I obliged by pulling my collar down and he proceeded to rummage around my torso, examining the traces of surgical interventions before kindly commenting that they are not frightening.

Maybe, now – because, without my informed consent (I was just a child) every single cancer scar was injected with cortisone. Over the years they leveled off and faded to silver, and since my immune system destroyed all the surrounding pigment, they are almost invisible.

Of course I didn’t show him my abdomen, hacked open and poorly mended on three memorable occasions, and striated with the evidence that I have birthed children. My belly is reserved for special occasions. Jean commented that it is odd I am such an exhibitionist but I just shrugged; I grew up on display for the benefit of doctors. Showing the scars, the proof of an unbelievable story, is simply routine.

Jean should know this; yet he persists in a series of quaint, sentimental, stereotyped ideas about women.

 

3.14.2008 witnessed

Today I raced all over the city in a state of panic, acquiring and copying important papers, plucking funds from what can only be described as thin air, figuring out how to pay bills if one does not have a bank account (answer: you can’t).

Welcome to my annual Mooring License Meltdown.

The whole process this year has been exacerbated by the fact that I had to have the boat inspected (out of the water) to obtain a new safety certificate and she is still five hours away in a marina, having her lady bits fixed up.

During the process I was shocked to hear that, against all common sense and economic theory, her value has not decreased: she is worth exactly the same amount as when first viewed three and a half years ago, although she should have lost a thousand quid per year.

I suppose this is another example of my genius for real estate investments – too bad I’m far too lazy and political to capitalize on such skills!

The worst part of the whole process was finding someone to witness my signature on the license contract. Jean, Josh, and all the usual suspects were mysteriously beyond reach. I was seriously considering asking the Wonderwall busker but then remembered a basic truth: the market square is the source of all that is good in this town.

We’ve talked nearly every day since I moved here, but I never knew his name until today, when I said Can I have a small hot chocolate? And I have a sort of funny favor ask….

My mate at the mobile coffee cart laughed and said it wasn’t the first time he’d been approached for the chore, then genially witnessed my signature on the document.

 

3.13.2008 simplistic

The cup musings sent my brain off on all sorts of bizarre tangents, one of which ended in the realization that I do not actually have any friends leftover from grad school. In fact, aside from Dawn Hitchens (daughter of a founding faculty and still beloved if misplaced), I can’t even remember their names.

This fact is in stark contrast to the startling point that I’ve managed to keep track of so many Green Vests. What is that, the uninitiated might ask? To be simplistic: the kids who staffed the computer center.

They bedeviled my life, but I can tell you exactly what happened to KTS, Byron, Leopoldo, Pat, Phan, Brian Ventura, and even Rob (the one who lived under the floorboards).

The computer center staff of my acquaintance practiced their art in an ancient and misty past, where many of us still used typewriters. Consequently, to be a Green Vest was quite an achievement, and a position of power.

Many of the brethren were kind and gentle, though a few were tyrants. Desperate grad students on limited budgets using dodgy software to print, say, a thesis might find themselves in crisis under this regime – and I speak from experience.

I’m still disturbed when I remember that each laser printed page required a red ticket, purchased in twenty-five cent increments from the bookstore. Fine – except the bookstore was only open during the day, and the computer center never closed. Leopoldo was the most dedicated enforcer, his presence on a deadline evening the equivalent of a broken kneecap.

In significant contrast: KTS, at the time a vociferous enemy, not only attempted to teach me how to use complicated software – when he recognized that I was not capable, he sighed, sat down, and finished my statistics homework. Yesterday he wrote to invite me to stay in his new apartment in Brooklyn; our friendship has been a marvelous and intricate mystery stretching across two decades.

Buffy is the only Green Vest who truly vanished – hardly surprising though eighteen years after we last spoke, I still miss her. Anyone out there who knows a striking, hilarious person of any stated gender going by the name Taylor (perhaps but not necessarily with an English accent) – do tell.

The point of this post has been mislaid like my lost cup, but the original idea was this: whatever seemed most important in the moment has faded over time, while the peripheral experiences have become hugely significant. How alarming – and entertaining.

 

3.12.2008 cup

During this adult lifetime I’ve moved more than fifteen times, and though I have a marked tendency to collect and hoard, much has been lost through the years.

When I lived in Portland I had a house filled to capacity with clothes, toys, art, and ephemera. When I moved to Seattle I shed half of the clutter. When I moved to England the remaining material possessions had to fit in a twenty foot container box. When that lot arrived in customs fully half of the items were damaged beyond repair: a liberating tragedy.

Of all that has been sold, discarded, or lost I can honestly say I do not miss much. The taxidermy and record collections live on in my old house, and I can visit whenever I like. There are a few dresses I remember fondly, but I would never wear them again even if they were hanging in my cupboard.

The single exception, the only object I miss, is a white plastic cup with a green lid, purchased during my first week of college and used every day all the way through graduate school. In the genre of travel mugs it would not rate very high as it was not insulated, but this was a feature I appreciated because the scorching hot coffee or tea kept my hands warm as I scrambled around campus. By the time it cooled completely it was time for a refill, a ritual repeated endlessly through the years – stretching far beyond just my education.

The cup went with me everywhere, and though the printed logo on the side vanished after a few vigorous scrubs, the cup was distinctive to a certain portion of the general public. In the Northwest hardly anyone commented, but in places as disparate as NYC or Tucson it was entirely ordinary to be standing around, cup in hand, and have a stranger pop out of a crowd to ask Did you go to Evergreen?

Oh, indeed. Wherever else? There are many valid criticisms of the school, and I was either miserable or furious throughout much of the experience, but there is literally no other campus where I could have survived – let alone thrived.

When asked for advice on college selection, I restrict myself to the observation that freaky kids should go to freaky schools. Though I do write letters of reference if people simply insist on Brown or Columbia, I tend to think that most of my friends and family members are well advised to choose an experiential, collaborative, interdisciplinary institution. Without grades or defined curriculum. Where you can fail or succeed on your own terms – without interference.

The reason is simple: we are all without exception the sort who confront the world with a You’re not the boss of me attitude.

Evergreen does not require that you select a mentor but having an advocate makes it easier to navigate the place. At first I had serious problems with professors and advising staff who told me to forfeit my scholarships, give up and go home. Tired of this attitude, I finally marched up to the director of the Native American Studies program and said I’m nineteen years old and the first person in my family to go to college. I have a four week old baby, a rare genetic disorder, two different kinds of cancer, and a possibly terminal auto-immune disease. I want to be here. What can you do to help?

He replied Anything you need.

That was the start of a benevolent friendship I am still trying to understand years after his unexpected early death. He was a Blake scholar, a poet, a fan of baseball – and hugely controversial. His personal and professional life were rife with scandal that shocked even the most tolerant.

He also signed every single independent study contract I devised, letting me combine literature with health education, writing with stints teaching sex ed in juvenile prisons, and collaborations with James. I enjoyed perfect freedom and only talked to my professor once every quarter, when we decided how to assign credits given my goal of public policy graduate school.

This was, he advised, a mistake. He said that reading my fiction was like walking barefoot across broken glass. He said You are a writer – but I didn’t care. I was too busy.

I was one of the most vocal critics of institutional failings, but Evergreen has the perfect answer for internal complaints: internal governance. I didn’t just stomp around declaiming, I was appointed to a task force. I didn’t just agitate for my own benefit, I ran the union of students with disabilities. All of my work study paychecks were funneled through these activities. Eventually, I wrote the first ADA compliance policy ratified by the deans.

I was no fan of Olympia, was never involved in the culture of the town or school; although many of my current friends were around at the time, I did not socialize with them. I had a child, and a goal: to acquire practical credentials and a steady job with benefits. Parties, shows, band practices? Frivolity! I rushed through my undergrad in two and a half years, and chose to stay on for graduate school because I was offered high quality subsidized child care on campus. Someone else might remember – how much did we pay each month? One hundred dollars, maybe two?

Staff members in childcare center were kind, devoted, and best of all, state employees making a decent wage with full benefits. Several became friends; the director and one teacher remained in touch for a decade after I moved away.

Given that my rent was never more than a hundred dollars a month, this meant that I could scrounge by without taking out major loans. Living on a graduate assistantship is in fact difficult, but we had The Corner! Bless the hippies, for they shall provide cheap garlicky grub, and let you wash dishes to pay if need be. Just bring your own fork.

I was the youngest person ever admitted to the public administration graduate program and pursued my studies with a ferocity still remembered by the faculty. They did not know what to make of me; how do you seminar on organizational theory if you’ve never had a real job? They compensated by putting me on the faculty hiring committee.

My fellow students were all ten or twenty years older and they treated me like a pet, took me out for my first legal drink, elected me to run the student association – a thankless task but of course, exactly my sort of treat.

I’ve never been infatuated with a person, but in those years I had an intellectual love affair with the Grange movement. Research ruled my life, and I loved it. The passive neglect of my advisor was probably intended to force me out of the program, but I didn’t want supervision – I wanted to save the world. This translated to a job staffing a project through the Governor’s office (trivia: the one ousted for sexual harassment – and no, he never tried it on with me).

That in turn determined my thesis, one of the very few in the history of the program with a single author – we weren’t allowed, but when have I ever followed that kind of rule? It was predicted that I would fail but despite great personal chaos (cancer tests, clandestine dates, testifying in multi-million dollar lawsuits, a messy and protracted divorce, typing the final document through the night in the computer lab as my toddler slept under the desk, you know – the usual) I finished all course work and writing on time. Unlike two-thirds of my cohort group.

The director of the program strongly advised against my thesis: I used a participatory research methodology to analyze the implementation of a federal civil rights law at the state and local level. When I presented the final product she shook her head and laughed and said that it should be published.

Of course, that never happened. I resolutely went forward into the world, taking up a government job that seemed ideal, staffing disability policy advisory boards. Then I quit. Forever. Citing nothing more than the fact that I did not like wearing beige clothing. This outcome was probably obvious – how could a person too contrary for an alternative liberal arts college survive in government service?

I carried my Evergreen cup around for about ten years before it was mislaid, and every time I took a sip I was reminded of the lessons from that period of my life. I miss it. That cup kept my fingers warm.

 

3.11.2008 pets

Pet cemetery

 

3.10.2008 news

Yesterday Jean emailed Tonight, you’re mine… Approximately fifteen minutes after any hope of child care walked out the door. Such is life! I’ll catch up with him later – rumor has it he acquired a new boyfriend. Indeeeeed….

In other news, I hear that Byron has left Pittsburgh behind and is now consorting with the scientists during the day and partying with Longshoremen at night. I cannot quite conjure the mental image of Byron, legs crossed and sipping lady drinks, in a real working class bar. I’ve certainly never dared take him to one.

He reports he is having some bro time.

The weather remained warm and sunny all week and I continued to walk around town, pausing here and there to write. This has improved my mood more than anything – I haven’t been able to work in months and work is absolutely essential for my mental welfare. I have simple needs, easily satisfied!

Meandering to Magdalen College:

 

 

 

3.9.2008 idyll

The tourists are about to descend so this morning I set off at nine to walk to Grantchester, hoping for a solitary idyll working at the Orchard.

On the way, a few glimpses of life here:

Virginia Woolf was a fan of the Orchard, where Bloomsbury consorted with the Neo-Pagans. Though she remarked of Cambridge: No place in the world can be lovelier… Lord! How dull it would be to live here!

Indeed. Though today, who cares? I worked on essays for a few hours then drifted off to sleep in the sun:

 

 

3.8.2008 dredging

They’re currently dredging the King’s Ditch so large swaths of the Backs are all ripped up, the river stopped, a footbridge closed… mayhem!

 

3.8.2008 news

Iain says my next book should be Cancer for Fun and Profit!

That would certainly be amusing, though I wonder where the profit would come from? Perhaps I need my own telethon.

On the fun side of the question, the mail today brings news: the people who run Oral Surgery are badass in the extreme, and have ruthlessly cleared time in the schedule for me. Guess I can’t avoid that one any longer – sigh. I dislike having my face Xrayed!

The people who run the Cambridge Breast Unit (insert your own joke here) were so very impressed with the survey I mailed in they have elected to kick me straight to Clinical Genetics, without an initial stop to let their own people have a first poke. That seems quite polite of them. Though we all know exactly what tests will be ordered, at least there is yet another delay so I can continue to dwell in denial!

To conclude, I must admit that when I wrote to the assorted clinics I forgot to contact my skin cancer docs. What could have caused the oversight? Perhaps the fact that they are the most likely to cut me.

In fact, the likelihood hovers around one hundred percent…. and the biopsy will be accompanied by stern lectures I can recite verbatim. Never fear, none of this worries me. As always, I am mostly just annoyed – though at the same time hugely impressed that the NHS provides such high quality (if grubby) services. Free of charge.

 

3.7.2008 commonalities

Earlier today I was telling Mark Mitchell that I have been considering giving up sugar including but not limited to honey in my tea, alcohol in general, and cinnamon jelly beans. Why? For the entertainment value.

He said Giving things up out of boredom is odd to me. When I’m bored, I engage in even more dangerous behaviour, rather than cleaning up my act.

I pointed out that there isn’t really much else on offer except, perhaps, taunting swans. Not exactly something that interests me.

Someone else helpfully suggested I address my current existential crisis thus: find yourself some nice football thug with a dick like a coke can and GET BUSY!

Technically there are no hoodlums in my general environs except those who live on Drunk Bench, and of course, I am too pure and innocent for such antics. Though that person does offer a certain underlying wisdom. Essentially, I am lonely.

The main reason I never talk about my problems is simple: my early life provided sufficient drama that I appreciate my current good fortune. I survived cancer, poverty, violence, and brutal accidents – what else could compare?

Unfortunately that does not mean I lack challenges, even problems that other people would recognize and sympathize with. All manner of turmoil has bubbled and oozed through my existence, especially since I moved to the UK. Did I talk about any of it? Not much, not hardly, no way. Some people heard scathing anecdotes, a very few others were allowed glimpses of grief (especially after the suicides last spring), but I have no vocabulary of discontent, no relative desire to share the burden of worry.

Why? Possibly because that is the honor code of my family. Perhaps because the early trauma required silence to endure. More likely because I am deeply private, contrary, and cryptic by nature. Beyond those semi-pathological explanations the even more basic fact is that I am, even when wounded, even in the darkest depths of despair, both a stoic and an optimist. I’ve always been a Hey kids, lets build a clubhouse! kind of person.

The last few months have been very difficult, but it is only now, in the last few days before spring opens up the world, that I can talk about it. Or, for that matter, allow myself to feel it. Winter is always a problem – I get very depressed, and can’t do much to build up my store of vitamins and sunlight without risking my health in other ways. Mostly I just hang on, and try to spend a few hours pacing around outside fully covered with warm clothes and sunblock. It helps – a little.

This year the problem was exacerbated by my longest ever sustained period of being a single parent. When I had my daughter I was still a teenager, and knew that I needed support. Even though her dad vanished I had my own parents, his parents, several sets of great-grandparents and cousins and aunts, friends, and housemates to help.

James and Byron were always around in the early years, and after I moved to Portland there was Polly and her menagerie, the magazine community, IPRC friends, and eventually the chorus. Being a mother is a solitary experience but I was never truly alone – I always had at least a designated co-parent, and usually a whole squadron of people who supported and loved my little family.

Even when I did not wish to access these resources, they were there. Even when I moved to a new city, the whole thing happened again, partly in an organic fashion, but mostly because I knew that it was a necessary tonic. Seattle has a reputation for being deeply unfriendly but I had AEM, Jeffrey and Tizzy, a different set of magazine folks including Yantra and Sal, the parents I met through AS1, and onward.

I’m not a friendly person but I am a community organizer; that is my calling, my trade, the skill the fairies granted at birth. England presented a unique set of new and puzzling challenges, Cambridge even more. But before I arrived I knew Sarah, David, Rachel, Emma, Don, Barbara, Andy, Karen, Iain. From that starting point I was introduced to a whole phalanx of other people, and found mysterious connections – people who are close Chloe, a woman who knows Ayun.

Of course a large number of those people are in London or even further out. And, as reported earlier, this year saw a vast exodus of Cambridge friends as they finished their academic work and departed.

If I have a crisis I know that there are people nearby who could help; Xtina, for instance, is a person I trust and admire who would not be frightened by the madness of my medical routines – something that I have to consider. But she is in London, so we do not share a daily routine. We can exchange email and visits, but we are not geographically close enough for the sort of casual intimacy that exists when you live in not just the same city but also neighborhood.

In Portland, most of my friends lived in the same neighborhood. In Seattle, Jeffrey was three blocks away on the other side of Beacon Hill. Here in Cambridge, this winter, I have exactly zero relief or support. Yet because of my previously discussed reticence I haven’t mentioned it.

Of course I will build up a new network of local friends; I just haven’t had time, and winter is never kind. Critically though, if I were simply alone, I would not even feel isolated. The problem I have been pondering this winter is the fact that parenting alone – without anyone to share either the good or bad parts, without any breaks, without respite or adult conversation, is one of the loneliest experiences I have ever had.

This is true even though not much has gone wrong, nobody is in crisis, and I emphatically love my children. They’re the best, the most entertaining, overall and completely my favorite people in the whole world.

Those facts do not change my latent seasonal depression, the burden of being accountable for all practical chores, or a hundred sundry other worries. Could it be worse? Yes, of course – and that knowledge is exactly why I normally keep my mouth shut. If only censorship were a solution!

Certainly I do not know what anyone could do for me, and I’m an expert on the subject.

This is a temporary situation for me; it will all be better in a few months. I am endlessly impressed by those of you who are single parents for an entire lifetime: you are heroic beyond measure.

Today I’m grateful that spring has arrived and that everything will change again very soon. New friends, new adventures, hurray!

 

3.6.2008 travel

It is once again time to apply for a mooring permit, for which I am required to account for all of my time away from town. Yes, I know – my secret boyfriend George Orwell would have a lot to say about that! If he were, you know, alive.

This is a useful exercise because while I generally feel like a ramble through the Fens is the sum total of my adventures, this is apparently… an illusion!

I never imagined I would leave the Puget Sound, let alone be a world traveler.

 

3.5.2008 memoir

Author admits gang-life ‘memoir’ was all fiction

The fact that her sister tattled on her is just genius. Though I am a wee bit tired of this trend.

I was already annoyed with misery memoirs as a category (hence my subversive little true and verifiable book), let alone flat out lies.

If you want to write fiction, write fiction. Stop making life hard for the rest of us.

 

3.4.2008 already

One of my genius west coast friends anted up a link to a completely hilarious Seattle Craigslist rant, later deleted, that is summed up by: Just fucking fuck me, already – the basic presumption being that men in that city do not know how. Or are too complicated and sensitive. While I found the listing highly amusing, I have made a scientific study of the miscreants of that beloved metropolis, and I feel compelled to defend their honor.

To state the most obvious point: men fulfilling the desired criteria are not likely to cruise Craigslist for a date. Where are they? At a show, club, or bar – scoring. Hard to locate? Not at all. Any day of the week you can walk into just about any Capitol Hill drinking establishment, walk up to the bouncer or bartender, and state your requirement.

If they don’t offer themselves up with alacrity (the normal response given a corresponding sexual orientation) they will succinctly give you a list of potential candidates, often accompanied by comments on relative penis size.

How do I know this? Remember – I went on a Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks when Ana Erotica needed a research subject and playmate.

In fact, though I did not personally sleep with any of them, I did acquire several significant friendships out of the deal. Thankfully, only one imagined he had fallen in love with me (and I suspect there is a correlation between my chaste refusal to have sex and the love thing – that is a Bad Boy Paradox).

Where else could you find a really bad boy? Almost anywhere, though I once picked someone up in criminal court – I thought the charge of communicating with a minor for immoral purposes was wildly funny. You might not share my sense of humor, but you get the point.

One of my charming companions pointed out that the problem with some of our female friends is they say they want gangster, but then date emo. Hint: if you want a fast date, it is a better bet to look for a filthy boy or dirty girl.

During our hunt Ana Erotica had an explicit and detailed list including all manner of details; we found countless people who matched. Her main problem is that she wants them to pass a literacy test – if she asks what they are reading and they say Miller, Bukowski, Kerouac, or Burroughs their services are not required. Too obvious and banal.

My comment that the man of her dreams is more likely to be found with porn or Guns & Ammo did not amuse her. And she makes a living writing porn!

Though recently some dude said he was reading Scientific American and she replied that her friend Byron’s work was described in the magazine and he knew the article and score! That bad boy probably wondered what hit him. We’ll never know cause obviously she didn’t leave her number behind; she didn’t care what he thought of the whole encounter.

Of course I myself seek true love and have eschewed bad boys with a firm hand, or at least, insist that our relations are virtuous and innocent. My point is that they are easy enough to find.

The larger question is whether you want to keep what you catch. Just saying.

 

3.3.2008 crane

Right about now a very large crane is pulling my steel canal boat out of the water to have her hull inspected, and then blacked. Scary!

I wish I could be there to watch – the whole thing is excessively fascinating. Too bad the marina isn’t on a bus route.

Today is officially Rare Disease Day.

Hmm. The experience might be (literally) a pain in the ass, but it is true – while isolated within our own category, we do have each other!

And the only way to gain personal autonomy, political progress, and assure our continuing survival is to recognize the need for solidarity and collective action. Cheers to all of the other freaky kids out there!

Every last one of my misbehaving chromosomes salutes you.

 

2.29.2008 scrub

This morning I masterfully started an engine assorted experts agreed was dead – ha!

Then I scampered down the street to begin my tedious cancer tests. Today they just wanted vials of blood, so I rolled up my sleeve. Then I watched with detached bemusement as the phlebotomist, after touching several doors in the reception room and hallway, after handling the paperwork I’ve dragged who knows where, after typing on her computer, after fiddling around with equipment, stuck a needle in my arm.

Neglecting to use gloves or wash her hands.

Did she disinfect the puncture site? Heck no!

Yes, I knew this would happen – and I let it. I suppose I was wondering if last time was just a fluke, but no. This is the hygiene standard. In a medical system that cannot account for the massive damage caused by MSRA.

Perhaps a good scrub might help?

 

2.28.2008 wreathed

Awhile ago Iain asked how much longer I will live in Cambridge. The answer is simple – if my kid wishes to continue his education, five to seven years.

Iain marveled People serve less time for armed robbery!

Indeed.

Today he took the train from London to hang out with me in what he refers to as your prison city. He has written two whole books defining the parameters of British life… yet he has never attended the Bumps. Clearly this had to be addressed.

We wandered through the market in the sunshine, had a yummy lunch at Rice Boat, loitered on the Backs, talked about scandal and miscellany under the RAF graffiti at the Eagle.

Eventually we made it to the river where we stared at the end of a race, athletic and anonymous girls either frowning or literally wreathed with success.

It didn’t seem that important to walk all the way to the head to catch the start of a set.

Instead we retired to the Green Dragon for more talking over a couple of pints, then a festive dinner to round out the day. This meant he was able to witness the …. shall we say enthusiastic attentions I receive at a certain local restaurant. Iain suggested the waiter in question probably has a secret livejournal documenting our encounters. I hope not!

Iain is excessively hilarious; eight hours in his company was a pure delight. Also, to reiterate earlier observations, we winter babies are sneaky bastards prone to making enormous life changes without, you know, talking. We just issue memorandum.

Living in Cambridge does feel like a state of confinement but in the spring the place is a sheer marvel – the daffodils are blooming, the baby animals arrive soon, and there are good friends nearby. It has really been far too long since we had a chance to spend so much time together – it was simply lovely to catch up.

 

2.27.2008 miles

I fly all the time but never ever collect miles. Unless my mother reminds me. Which is only about a twice per year experience (during which she also prompts me to accommodate daylight savings, and have my teeth cleaned).

Imagine my surprise to realize then that I have finally, for the first time in my entire life, earned a free ticket. How amazing!

I’m almost like a real grown-up now!

 

2.26.2008 repairs

I’ve spent most of the week attempting to schedule boat maintenance, tearing around looking for critical lost paperwork and royalty checks, and and and…..

Given that I was freaked half out of my mind, what did I do to calm myself? Hmm. How about open all the scary ignored mail from the research hospital and then dutifully write to all five (yes, five) specialty clinics I need to visit.

Including, woe is me, appointments for horrible invasive tests. Pelvic ultrasound, here I come! In some remote part of my brain I know that I am lucky to skip the queue and be treated with such devotion. But mostly I remain annoyed with this tiresome genetic disorder and all the maintenance it requires. Last year was all about decadence. The theme of this year is repairs.

 

2.25.2008 predicted

It has been nearly two months since I gave up sparkling water. Success? Why yes, thank you! I’ve accepted the very occasional offer of a glass, but no more than three or four times total. It hasn’t even been hard – now when I drink the stuff my tummy feels strange! Though as predicted, I have not been able to keep up my four liter per day water intake without the bubbles. My feet have thus, of course, been bleeding. Poor treacherous feet. They really ought to get over it. Oh, and the broken toe also. That incident happened a year ago! Pain begone!

 

2.20.2008 immigration

UK home secretary outlines new immigration policy proposals

Hmm. Know any immigrants? How about… me. Josh, Don, Byron, and three-quarters of the high tech workers and research scientists I know. Peter, Hong-Seok, Jean, Barbara – in fact, most of the professional academics of my acquaintance. The entire East London Massive, a group renowned for cutting edge computer science research.

Children and the elderly charged more? Parents punished if children commit crimes? This is not the vision of a society I want to live in, or a government I would support if I had the right to vote.

Making a distinction between asylum seekers, migrant workers, and professionals is both reprehensible and a logical fallacy – any one of us could make a fortune or end up in a coma. We all pay taxes.

The only real difference between the groups is that those of us with resources can elect to live elsewhere – and obviously, we choose according to the standard of life. The main advantage of the UK is equality of access to the social safety network. I don’t know anyone who moved to this country for the food.

 

2.19.2008 summary

The journey was quite arduous but I am now back in the UK.

What happened in my absence? Break-ups, make-ups, and scandal beyond reason. I missed it all!

What else can I say about Pittsburgh? So much I hardly know how to provide a summary.

There were more excellent meals with Sallyann and Dan, a Valentine gift of time from Lli, hanging out with a wounded Opal, coffee with the irrepressible Kim and her adorable infant (and Lli, and Opal…).

During one brunch I met the Third Termite people for the first time and then realized every single person at the table was friends with Moe and Dwayne, setting off a wave of homesickness along with an unexpected jolt of infatuation for this new city.

It was delightful to be able to talk about the Chicken House and the old neighborhood with people who have walked down the same streets.

We went to Homestead, converted from steel mill to mall, and I muttered Curse the Pinkertons – though none of my charming companions wished to hear further history lectures.

 

We did as much Mister Rogers’ tourism as possible, including a visit to the Children’s Museum Land of Make-Believe, and drive-by glimpses of his old apartment, the seminary where he studied, and a convenience store where Sallyann once watched him buy cookies.

 

My kid sat on the same bench at the National Aviary where Mister Rogers’ learned about birds, then he fed the lories:

And I rode both of the funiculars to admire the views of a gorgeous postindustrial city:

 

2.18.2008 curling

I wasn’t joking when I said that curling is my favorite sport. Much to my surprise, some people share this opinion… in fact, local friends even belong to a league. Last night I turned out to cheer Vince, Daphne, and Dan as they swished their way to victory. I love this town!

 

2.16.2008 bowling

Last night we arranged to meet friends to go bowling. They were late so we started a game, occasionally joking and laughing with two dads and assorted children in the lane next to us. When Sallyann arrived she exclaimed with surprise and embraced the friendly strangers – they were old friends. Later I whispered an enquiry and she nodded at one of the men and said That is Kim’s ex-brother-in-law.

Moe dated Eric when she was still called Lara, before he married Kim, before she hooked up with Dishwasher Pete. The stranger from the next lane knows a whole cast of characters from my life.

Sallyann and her partner certainly do, spanning inexplicable decades, states, continents. Another woman who joined us is also friends with Amy Joy and Pete, though she lives in upstate New York and they are of course in Amsterdam.

Later I realized that Dan grew up in Erie and asked if he knows MV Moorhead, a journalist friend in Arizona. He looked puzzled for a second then asked He wrote for the paper?

Yes, indeed. What a small world we live in! And the bowling was of course awesome:

 

 

2.14.2008 alteration

If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love’s sake only. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning

During one of my previous lives I had a habit of memorizing poetry, the more epic the better. On occasion this surfaces as an impromptu recitation of Die Lorelei (in German, though that is all I retain from high school language classes). I can also sometimes be tempted to do American revolutionary war poems (many, many war poems), or <a href=””>Evangeline</a>, and on rare sad days even Lacplesis.

For the most part though the poems have faded away, along with all the trivia acquired as a history student, accessed only when confronted with a reminder. The other day I was wandering around Pittsburgh when I spotted a memorial plaque marking the exact spot where the local incarnation of the Great Railroad Strike of 1877 happened, with deaths on both sides, and a conflagration that burned the depot. Of course, I cried.

Despite my choice to leave the country, I am in fact hopelessly in love with my homeland, the political process, the history and future of this messy nation. Today is Valentine’s Day, a false, commercial, and insipid day set aside from all the rest without rational reason, and my unravelling issues as a citizen expat are identical to those I’ve encountered in my romantic adventures.

My objection to the day is simple: love should be an operating principle, true love a substantial daily experience. Roses and candy and fancy dinners are all well and good, but distract from the hard work of real love. Just like election year debates act as a smokescreen rather than helping identify the most worthy candidates. Do I care who has good television presence? No. I care about voting records and other tangible proof of political courage. Full stop.

During one of our entertaining phone conversations last year Gordon asserted some point about my tendency to date thugs and I replied indignantly I feel quite cordial toward all of my exes – even the serial rapist!

He laughed and pointed out that would be a good title for another book, but I think it rather unwieldy. The point is valid though. When I love people, I love them for exactly who they are, not some projection of need or desire. Wherever I have encountered love it has been a fundamental truth, something precious and real.

In my life inconvenient facts like geographic distance or murder arraignments have never mattered much because I have found that love is viscous, inescapable. Love does not evaporate when you realize the other person is difficult, contrary, annoying, or has poor laundry habits. Love is not predicated on preference, but rather on something deeper.

Infatuation and romance last a year, maybe two – if you are lucky. The more sustainable variety of regard is quiet, kind, and enduring. Infatuation drives people to distraction. Love gives rides to the emergency room, year after year, without fail.

I mostly hang out with writers, musicians, artists, logicians, and other varieties of professional liars. This makes it very difficult to know what is true, and what is just a story. But love transcends rational thought and outlives passion.

Love is love, something found, not chosen – though we each make our own choices to accept or decline, to nurture or sabotage. True love does not die but remains, either a continuing gift or a grievous loss. People can be stupid, careless, mean.

From my observation most people (myself included) just flail along without a master plan – hurting each other all the time, whether accidentally, through good intent, or by malicious design. I work hard to be attentive but tend to be more analytical than emotional, which can sometimes feel quite cold and cruel.

Over the last year many friends my age have fallen prey to nostalgia and started to look up lost friends, old acquaintances, made plans to attend reunions. I have very little interest in such actions because the people I care most about have generally remained in my life. The only exception is of course abandoned lovers – specifically the very few I did not allow to become part of my extended chosen family. I do not think of them often, but when I do I wonder what they remember, how they account for whatever happened.

If etiquette allowed I would be keen to inquire. This would not be wise; James correctly advises that I really ought not talk to anyone who has threatened to take my life or kidnap my child. Fair enough – though none of these people scare me, I respect the fact that we acted as incendiary devices in each others lives.

Over the winter holiday Ana Erotica asked if my heart has ever been broken and I answered No, without elaborating. .

This was a prevarication of sorts, because the organ in question was in fact literally smashed during the car accident. I have also experienced woeful sadness over the deaths of loved ones. But she was asking about romantic love, and I have in fact never had my heart broken in that cliched way. Why?

I have certainly loved deeply, and been loved in return. I have also lost more than I can calculate. But, critically, I have never chosen who to love, only who to talk to. When I walk away it is an act of preservation. I am a strictly disciplined person, it is true – but I also retain an innocent faith in both electoral politics and true love. Even though I have fled my country of origin. Even though I have engaged in bloody battles. Even though much of my life has been an illustration of loss and grief and pain.

I still love my children, my husband, my mother, my friends, and everyone who has ever sincerely loved me. I still vote, and think, and act out of a principled regard for other people. I maintain a simple conviction that this story has a happy ending.

Today on Mister Rogers the characters in the Land of Make Believe discussed their particular and various definitions of love. There was no consensus, except Lady Elaine’s comment You know the feeling when you find it.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

 

2.13.2008 porn

Last year I developed a fantasy (some of you may recall I have no imagination, so please translate this as plan) to acquire an apartment building and install all of my favorite people. So the dear would be near…. but in charge of their own chores.

Of course no such scheme could come to fruition in my favorite cities; they’re all way too expensive. But various people are trying to convince me to move to Pittsburgh and a large part of the pitch has been house porn.

Advance intelligence was correct – you can in fact buy whole city blocks for chump change! I’ve met punks who put grand houses on throwaway credit cards!

The other night Gordon texted to ask if I’ve bought one yet and I excitedly replied No, but I almost bought two adjoining apartment buildings! Wanna be my tenant?

He wisely did not reply.

One small hitch is the fact that Josh, Marcus, and MV are the only elsewhere friends who voluntarily wander through Pennsylvania – not exactly a high percentage in the friend category (though they are of course high quality). And then there is the pesky lack of an international hub airport. Still, a girl can dream!

 

2.12.2008 continuity

The first time we met eleven or so years ago Lli was wearing a leopard print skirt, some kind of military surplus jacket, and lots of wild half-dreaded hair. My sartorial choices would have been much less ambitious – I was likely drifting around in a tattered old Smithfield t-shirt, and my hair was almost certainly bobbed and dyed black. Spectacles? I think I had on the pair I wore at seventeen… all of this, of course, a by-product of poverty so severe I could not even afford to go to the thrift store.

She was holding a beautiful blonde baby, and I was clutching one also. Those two infants could not walk or talk when they first met, but they remained friends as they grew and grew, consistently the tallest in their social scene. We all moved away from Portland on the same day five and a half years ago – Lli and her daughter to Pittsburgh, my small family to Seattle, then Europe.

In the years since we have met up again back in the old neighborhood, in NYC, and even in London. We’ve all changed substantially, growing independently into various careers, educations, styles, lives.

The incredibly fascinating thing is the fact that the children pick up the friendship without even a seconds pause. They still share the same attitude, interests, sense of humor, even matching winter coats… and of course, excessive height.

The girl is taller than her mother, and me, and my boy is only half an inch behind! It is truly a gift to have this continuity between a life I loved and abandoned, and a new life that continues to amaze. Kids at the Warhol Museum:

 

2.2.2008 peripatetic

I’m sitting around in my knickers waiting to go out on an epic quest to see the city Mister Rogers called home.

During the layover in Chicago I texted various people to let them know I was back in the states and headed to Pennsylvania. Jody replied Pittsburgh? Awesome! I love Pittsburgh!

I was mildly baffled and asked Have you been there?

He answered Of course! I used to work for the AFL-CIO!

Oh yeah – I always forget. Since he is a man of leisure now it is hard to imagine but he was once a union operative… and very good at disrupting shareholder meetings, I am sure!

I asked for tips on things to do in the city and he replied Walk the picket line?

I pointed out that it is too cold and he answered Beat up scabs to stay warm!

Hmm. I think that I will go ride the funicular instead!

When informed of my geographic location Mark Mitchell imperiously demanded my presence in Seattle. Oh, if only I could go! It often feels like my heart has been cut up in little pieces and deposited in bloody parcels all over the world.

I would not trade my peripatetic and erratic travels for a false sense of stability – or anything else. These years on the road have been the most difficult, confusing, strange, enchanting, and amazing – out of a whole lifetime of adventure. After all, would I have met these people if I had just remained quietly at home?

 

 

The other night I took my kid to see the Moscow State Circus, an event well worth the price of admission just to see the contortionist.

Watching someone who has been able to undergo training to control and channel this sort of flexibility is simply fascinating. I am, like the performer, double jointed. In reality the term just means your joints are a little too loose – and for most people, this means you over-extend and get hurt.

I can move each of my toe joints independently, bend my fingers all the way back, turn my legs around or put them behind my head. My frame and muscles are also quite strong, but I never had the critical extra element of control over the whole thing; if I tried to swing on monkey bars it would shred my rotator cuff. I am the embodiment of sprain.

Our tickets were front row center and my son was absolutely thrilled and entranced – he loves all aspects of the human circus, is learning to ride a unicycle, says that he wants to attend mime college.

He was too young to accompany me the last time I went to New Mexico to see Marisa and Maria Fabulosa and Jake and the others in One Railroad Circus perform in a ghost town. He has now lived in the UK so long he has no memory of the trapeze in the living room at the Palace, or any of the parties and performances thrown by our aerialist friends.

The choice to leave that life behind was deliberate, and I do not regret it – even though there are many difficulties inherent in living so far from loved ones.

This fact was further underscored at the interval, when I received a message from my mother informing me that the final great-aunt has had a stroke.

I wish that I could be there to help in some practical fashion. Growing up in that family it was always very clear that love was expressed in pragmatic acts instead of lofty proclamations. This took all forms, from the certainty that someone would pick you up if your car broke down in the middle of the night, or you were forcibly removed from a Greyhound bus and left without money or shoes somewhere in Montana (not me – that honor goes to my aunt).

Rides to the emergency room, bail money, care packages sent to federal prisons – it was all covered. Regardless of the contingency or crime, we looked after our own.

When visiting, we never showed up empty-handed – you always took a casserole or home-fried chicken, or if it was the only option, stale discount pastries from the outlet store.

Because I was so sickly and odd, while the cousins raced dirt bikes or beat each other with sticks, I always sat with my grandmother and the great-aunts. As a direct consequence, my social skills are strongest when it comes to interacting with the frail and elderly; if I live that long, I will be an excellent old lady.

There were enough of us to assume that socializing with the older generation would always be a feature of our life; the founding family was thirty strong spread between three households. Subsequent generations produced children in double digits – a typical pioneer story.

My mother was one of seven, her closest sets of cousins came in units of five and six. But this falters in the late sixties, and most of the cousins at my level are only children.

The once large, vibrant, close-knit family is scattered, tattered, nearly extinct. There will be no more coffee cake mornings, or potluck suppers. No wild weddings or whiskey fueled wakes. No aunts, uncles, cousins growing up and getting old.

Even if I could fly back right now there would be very little for me to do except hide my tears.

I was at the circus with an eleven year old so of course I rallied and laughed and chatted as we returned to our seats. In the time left before the show started again I also fell into conversation with the elderly woman next to me, an unusual move on my part anywhere in the world, let alone England.

If circumstance and desire have destroyed almost all connections with my biological family that just means that I have to work harder to create a new one. The best tribute I can offer my great-aunt is the fact that she and her sisters taught me well, that I will continue their tradition of taking care of the people around me, no matter how difficult, no matter what happens.

 

1.29.2008 extraordinary

This afternoon I received a text from somewhere in South America (I guess) saying Mark your calendar, party at my house in Spain! Will be extraordinary… promise!

I was thrilled and twirled with excitement, even though there is no way I can get away for the next few months. I can’t even make it to Iain’s birthday celebration in London this week, let alone a lost weekend of wicked debauchery in another country. No childcare, no parties!

Then I remembered that my mother is coming to visit, facilitating my escape… I can fly to Malaga from Prague! I am so endlessly thrilled!

However, the actually extraordinary thing about invitation? It came from someone who attended the same junior high.

The morning I met David in 1984 we were just a motley collection of teenage outcasts standing in line at the waterbed store in a derelict western town, shivering against the cold wet dawn, waiting to buy tickets for the first ever Madonna concert.

Together we listed through the indignities of a junior high run along the lines of a federal prison, and a high school featuring barbed wire and security cameras. We threw Kool-Aid parties when others were getting into crack. While our peers nailed lived kittens to trees, we amused each other with pranks like forking lawns.

It was a perilous, innocent, awful time, and when we parted at age eighteen we were separately fleeing not just the town but our respective dates, families, lives.

We were lost to each other from that day until just recently – and only then because he lives in London and I live in Cambridge. Who would have dreamed how far we would go? Who would have guessed we had the capacity to grow into adults who are actually more playful and delighted and determined than we were at age thirteen?

Not me, for sure.

I didn’t even think we would stay alive long enough to cross the county line. Oh, how I adore David!

 

1.28.2008 community

The last time I was in Amsterdam visiting Dishwasher Pete and Amy Joy they showed me photographs of a trip with someone who looked very familiar. I said Um, so…. how do you know Sallyann?

When I left my government career I swore an oath that I would never again work just for money, but only for love of the work itself. Of course, that meant I had a lot of spare time, most of which I filled by creating esoteric little web sites that you have never heard of.

Ten years ago I was a subscriber to a zine out of California. When the company running the website realized they were not going to make a profit off the venture they pulled out and I took over as publisher.

From the very first day the project was collaborative in nature, with volunteers from all over the nation (and later world) pitching in whatever skills they could spare. One of the very first people to step up was an architect from Pittsburgh called Sallyann.

If memory serves, she designed the very first iteration of the site that gradually grew into the behemoth that is now known as Hipmama.com. Kim – another Pittsburgh resident – was one of the first moderators. Lli was a personal friend based in Portland, and she was involved in all manner of strategic planning for the project, and five or six years ago she also moved to Pittsburgh.

When I say that someone volunteered to help with HM, this means that they offered something really rare and precious, because for all the wonderful things the site has meant or accomplished, the experience of working behind the scenes has always been, at the very least, challenging. For some of us it has been quite brutal.

The volunteers all worked without monetary compensation, often in difficult circumstances, to build and nurture a community – frequently without thanks or proper acknowledgment from the people they served. Because, of course, that was never the point.

I feel such a high level of admiration for the volunteers I can never really express my gratitude; they are, simply, the best people I have ever had the privilege to work with. Lli has been in touch throughout the entire decade, and we see each other whenever possible – sometimes in Portland but also in NYC and London, wherever we happen to turn up.

I haven’t heard from the other two in awhile but when I wrote to say that Byron moved to their fair city all three demonstrated the grace and charm that characterized our earliest friendships, offering to take him out and show him around and help him get to know the city.

I tend to fling myself at new experiences without any expectation of what the future might hold. When I stop to trace the way that this life has introduced me to so many amazing people I am astonished at my great fortune, marked not by material wealth but rather by friendship. It could have been very different.

I am, as always, so honored to have these friends.

 

1.25.2008 venture

Sarah is back in town – hurray! She is here to help David pack and leave – oh no!

I met them courtesy of Gordon – a fortuitous connection that smoothed the path as I moved from one country to the next. We’ve known each other through major life transitions, and I adore them both.

Sarah is even, through a combination of chance, choice, and coincidence, one of the very few people I’ve ever taken on a major boat ride.

Last night we met at the Castle for perhaps the last time; oh, how I’ll miss them when they’re both gone for good! Sarah is also, of course, my Ladychat guru and she demanded scandal and gossip.

Since last we met I’ve been to Seattle, San Francisco, Denver, Nice, Paris, Rome…. and probably a few other places I’ve forgotten. Unfortunately for Sarah, I’ve mostly behaved myself – though I did have some stories to tell about other accomplices.

Plus, guess who I ran into at the bar? Jean, no longer deported! He was with Stelios but later came and joined our group. Conversation ranged across all manner of topics with particular emphasis on immigration law given Jean’s recent woes, David’s efforts to extend so he can finish the dissertation, and the fact that I travel with visa denied stamped in my passport.

They did extract sufficient facts to harass and mock me; Sarah and David are hilarious, beloved – and the loss of their companionship will be much lamented. Good luck to them, and a beautiful baby girl, as they venture forth to a new life!

 

1.22.2008 libertine

The other day I was reminded again that in certain local circles I am viewed as a wanton and dissolute femme fatale. I was already consulting with Mark Mitchell about summer travel plans and took the opportunity to lodge an indignant complaint about my reputation in this town.

He wrote You have become a dangerous libertine I’m afraid … I would hate to have to guillotine you come the revolution.

I replied If you have to guillotine me, could you at least make sure my hair doesn’t get messed up?

His answer? We will tie your hair up with a pretty ribbon before you receive the kiss of the blade.

Oh, how I miss Seattle! Bauhaus, August 2007:

 

 

1.20.2008 soundtrack

This morning I was waiting for some packages to be delivered and idly flicking through my ipod, looking for music I haven’t heard a million times. Much to my surprise I happened upon the soundtrack to Valley Girl.

I have no idea how it got there – not exactly a film I liked, let alone a cultural trend I embraced. Nicholas Coppola aka Cage as a punk? Even in my rural Northwestern adolescence, I knew better.

Plus listening to Johnny Are You Queer? did not prove at all illuminating, let alone fun. Oh, the eighties!

Though I do have this side question after reading the wiki: E.G. Daily was married to Rick Salomon for five years? Huh? Not exactly what I had imagined from the love interest in Pee-Wee. Let alone the voice of Tommy Pickles. But I digress.

The interesting thing about soundtracks is of course whatever memory or emotion they can bring back unexpectedly. This particular album has zero resonance (nope, no tender memories of (I Melt with You), but others can take me straight back to times and places I sometimes wish to forget.

The very earliest illuminating musical moment I remember was provided by a scratchy cassette playing a version of Rock Lobster recorded off a weak radio channel. That song rocked my world profoundly – when? Not as early as 1978 (I was only seven years old!) but probably somewhere around 1981, when my musical tastes diverged from that of my family.

You can’t listen to Neil Diamond your whole life, after all.

Other early sources included Joan Jett (obviously) and the Go-Gos, still arguably my first exposure to real punk music, regardless of what the boys in the audience might mumble.

My first concert was the first night of the first ever Madonna Virgin Tour, in 1984, when I was in the midst of cancer treatments and about to drop out of school. I mostly sat with my forehead pressed to the guard rail, too sick to care, but I remember the opening act quite clearly: the Beastie Boys, booed off the stage, screaming Fuck you, Seattle! That was way more my speed than Holiday.

When you live in the back of beyond it is impossible to be all that picky; we took what we could scavenge from older kids, random trips to the big city, Bombshelter Videos, the flickering yet merciful offerings of KJET, bits of good stuff on 120 Minutes.

In the summer of 1986 all my friends were into The Cure, and since I was one of the few kids with a car and license (but no curfew) I dutifully listened while ferrying people back and forth. I had no particular opinion, but a couple of those albums became entwined with the experience of falling in love for the first time.

We went on a maybe-date to see Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me at the Coliseum. So: the first time a boy held my hand I was staring at Robert Smith shambling around drunk (we presume) singing dark and alarming love ballads. How prophetic. That particular relationship ended in bitter recriminations and death threats but I can still listen to The Cure with fond regard.

Recently I commented over dinner that I am relieved no albums remind me of the breakup and Byron said Oh no – there is one, and I can tell you exactly what it is! You’ve never once let me play it!

–What?

-Strangeways Here We Come

I shuddered. Oh, indeed. Except in my mind that particular sonic experience is more connected to waking up to the sight of blood smeared everywhere: the car accident that destroyed everything.

Even though Laibach was actually playing; for whatever reason, the Laibach album was not writ upon my scars.

Later that year, driving around endlessly with thoughts of suicide ruling my every waking moment, I know that I was listening to The Pixies because I lost custody of the music collection and I was down to exactly one tape.

Why then is my number one musical memory of that era the fact that the Eagles song Take it Easy  seemed to persecute me at every turn? Hard to say, but one thing is clear – the music I actually remember most is the stuff I can still hear on the radio.

That fact does not reflect my actual musical taste; I was at most of the seminal NW shows between 1985 and 1990, though I have zero memory of them: I have efficiently erased the songs from my brain. Given the chance someone with a similar background could probably assemble a mix tape that would put me in a hyperventilating panic (this is not a challenge).

Nickle, for instance, is prone to asking clever questions like Do you remember the night the punks rioted on the Bremerton ferry?

Well, yes. That happened when a bunch of Seattle kids came over to Bremerton for a show at Natacha’s. All of which I will forget as soon as I finish typing this sentence. I do not wish to open the cupboard of my mind that contains the details of the show in question.

The Violent Femmes were the soundtrack of next falling in, if not love, then impossible romantic illusions leading onward to becoming a mother. Not because I picked em (either love object or album), but because someone else did – along with Metallica, Guns N Roses, all the usual suspects who come back and taunt me when I go to karaoke.

Sheela Na Gig calls up a crisp memory of standing in the pantry at my parents house talking to Byron, calling from sixty miles away to ask if I wanted to go to a PJ Harvey show. That night. Somewhere in Seattle (we could meet mebbe, or something, voice trails off…) To which I sighed in exasperation and pointed out that as the parent of a two year old I could hardly go to a show without advance warning to arrange childcare, now could I?

Byron was supposed to be a passing fancy; who would have guessed at the complications? And what was I listening to? Sonic Youth. I don’t wanna, I don’t think so, I don’t wanna, I don’t think so……

That, of course, also covers my early career in government and abrupt decision to vanish for awhile. During the early Portland years I was so poor I could not get a needle for the stereo, or buy new music at all. Mostly I listened to stuff that Kim Singer sent from Pittsburgh – the first couple of Belle & Sebastian albums – or random review copies – including lots of Elliot Smith – and tapes of Beth’s radio show in Madison.

After that there was the Chorus, and singing, and all the amazing musicians who treated my house like a community center. When I left Portland it felt like losing a limb, and I reverted to Elliot Smith, this time albums bought from a store. His albums are a perfect companion for extended mourning; if only there were more of them.

I’m not going to list the various friends who make music I listened to over the years, for the expedient reason I might forget to put someone in this paragraph who would then have their feelings hurt. Quite frequently when my grown-up daughter has discovered a new music sensation she calls me up asks if I know them and I reply something like Oh, that is Pam’s best friend, and I think we had seminar together in 1990….

But she cuts me off and exclaims I don’t care about that! I want to know if you like the music!

No comment.

Though in a similar vein, I find it strange and alarming to hear what I think of as friends from the neighborhood, or people I knew in college, or people I would commonly see flopping about in other modes in my environment, playing from jukeboxes across the world.

One specific song has leapt out and made me cry in Madrid, Paris, Rome, London…. and no, I will not specify which song or band.

 

1.17.2008 malady

I’m finally recovering from the dread malady, though I have mostly been sleeping all week.

This morning as we walked across Jesus Green with the sun rising above the spires my eleven year old son said Mom, let me impart some information to you…

His conversation ranged across the history of skateboarding, the intricate plots of P. G. Wodehouse novels, the Mister Rogers car theft anecdote, and the very exciting fact that they are playing maths games all day at school.

Of course we were walking because he has just this week outgrown the last size in boy bicycles and needs to get one built for a man. Oh, childhood; it disappears so fast!

 

1.10.2008 decadent

Decadent, hilarious, insightful, hella smart, and ruthless in the best possible ways – Rachel is an endless marvel. Happy, happy birthday wishes – cheers to you now and in all the years to come!

 

1.09.2008 bemused

One night in San Francisco I coaxed Dawn Riddle into eating dinner at Spork, a merry adventure indeed; taking punks to eat fancy food is great fun! They are always so bemused!

After filling up on backwards food (mmm, scallops) we met some of her friends at a club to watch a DJ spin what the poster declared was “alternative hits of the 90’s.”

Apparently, this now means “stupid mainstream music you could hear at the junior high prom.” Plus, I was the oldest person in the place by easily a decade. And, worst of all, half the people were wearing ironic plaid. Ugh!

I ditched the scene and scampered off to Annie’s Social Club for Leisure, where Marcus promised I could find actual grownups having fun. Upon arrival my friends plied me with alcohol then dragged me up on the tiny stage where they were hopping around like loons.

Then they ordered me to dance. Which I proceeded to do. For the second time in my entire life. After about an hour one of my charming companions stopped and said in wonder You’re a good dancer!

Well, duh. The fact that I choose not to do something does not mean I am incapable!

 

1.08.2008 wonderful

Gordon offered to throw me a birthday party, and he kept his word – to an astonishing degree! When I asked what I could do to help, he said invite people and show up!

How remarkable. I’m used to not only manufacturing my own celebrations, but also cleaning up after. Gordon is such a good friend, along with being an all-round nice guy! I even left the guest list up to him, inviting precisely two people of my own volition.

Everyone else heard via the host or from other friends, and that meant the turnout was quite an interesting mix of beloved friends and people I’ve never met before. The whole thing was great fun – the best birthday party ever! Plus it was not actually on the cursed day, so more people showed up than I expected. This included (but was by no means limited to) Daphne, and Pete, and mad scientists, and and and…..

In fact, Andreas later marveled Why does Bee live in Europe, when she belongs in San Francisco?

Why indeed. We’ll leave that mystery for another day and proceed with a tour of the festivities:

Cake not made by me- plus they asked permission before singing to me!

Dawn Riddle wore earrings shaped like an ipod:

Me & Zack from the Bus Stop (oh, how we commiserated on the loss) who also graciously shot my publicity photos:

Jonathan, as beautifully turned out as ever:

Champagne bottles popped over and over but given that it was a Sunday we made it an early night – despite Pete’s observation that Gordon wasn’t working the next day.

I wandered off into the night in a state of bliss, and was woken a few hours later by the fact that Byron needed to go to the emergency room. Fast.

Luckily I’d done the research and knew where to take him, but the cab ride was in fact dodgy – he should have had an ambulance.

I’m definitely the person you want on your side in these situations; I remain calm and always have an eerie grasp of the details and information required to get the attention of the correct doctor. Plus, instead of being grumpy, I was rather pleased to see the sun rise. I’ve never had that experience in San Francisco!

After a few hours of fitful sleep it was time to collect one kid from the train station in Oakland, then zoom back across the bridge to meet the other kid at the airport in SF, to proceed with the family portion of the Not Birthday..

Pretty good times, all considered.

Presents? Why look! It is a cute lil’ ipod! Technically I picked it out, and hassled people endlessly for the vote between sweet and practical. I love it!

More images of loot, including the very awesome contributions from Gordon, Hiya, and Jonathan:

And the bittersweet from my mother; a collection of Lavender family photographs (parents wedding day lower right):

On the actual night we went out to dinner with Hiya and Jonathan (Gordon was invited but had to stay in and wash his hair). My thirty-seventh birthday was absolutely astonishing and wonderful in every possible way!

 

1.07.2008 terminal

Twenty-five years ago today I was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

 

1.05.2008 coincidence

In a somewhat startling series of coincidences, a whole host of people I know from elsewhere are in San Francisco this weekend.

I could never have imagined a scenario in which Bus Stop delegates (specifically those collected during the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks) and the East London Massive met. Let alone on cheese mafia territory. Yet it appears that it will be so. I can’t wait! This has been the best January ever!

 

1.04.2008 whiteout

Did I mention that when we left Loveland the rental car started flashing every possible indicator light? Oh – and it refused to shift out of first gear. The choice was to remain at a closed ski lodge, wait in a sketchy turnout, or…. coast.

From the Continental Divide all the way to Georgetown. Not knowing if the brakes would hold. Um. Fun!

After the scary road part it wouldn’t have been so bad. Except the folks were waiting for us to do a belated xmas dinner. But hey, these things happen – and I have long held a place in my heart for the home of the real life Charlie Utter!

We took shelter in a restaurant for awhile then returned to wait in the vehicle for the rental car company to issue a replacement, something they promised to do within the hour. Four hours later we were still sitting in a broken car – in subzero weather.

Though it was worth it because guess what the replacement was? A Durango! Can you imagine? I can’t, and I got to ride around sitting on the seat heater for five whole days!

In the end the escapade was doubly lucky because, if we’d gone the day originally planned, we would have been trapped by a whiteout that shut I-70 and left two thousand people in emergency shelters. From the safety of the city, the whole thing was beautiful:

 

 

1.02.2008 confidantes

The other night I was driven to yonder far distant land (translation: an unincorporated area of Aurora County that literally did not exist the last time I was in Colorado) and picked up the always amazing Ade. At the home of his stepmother. Where I wheedled an introduction to at least one sister.

Can you believe it? People who know Ade from Seattle probably suspect he hatched fully formed, but I now have proof otherwise!

We backtracked countless miles in search of a drinking establishment and ended up at the Night Shift Saloon, where Byron fed quarters to the juke box and befriended the locals.

Ade and I got all silly on cocktails and wine, talking fast and furious about love and sex and doomsday cults and all manner of oddity. As one does. Why are so many of my most cherished confidantes Bus Stop refugees? I don’t know, but I am endlessly thankful for their friendship:

 

1.01.2008 decision

I do not make New Year resolutions but yesterday I arrived at a momentous decision. Brace yourself.

Over the last four years I have given up coffee, red wine, and hair dye. Now I am repudiating the one remaining addiction I revel in. After all, if my friends can kick heroin or crack, I can certainly take the withdrawal of my daily bubble fix. Right? So I did it. I made the choice. I’m now twenty-four hours into my seltzer sobriety.

Who knows how long it will last – I may weaken and succumb even later tonight. But at least I am making the attempt. For those who do not know me in real life, this is a huge thing. I’ve dragged bottles of sparkling water on public transportation in a dozen different countries. Carried such heavy bags my arms were bruised on long brutal hikes across all manner of terrain no matter what the weather. Six liters every single day!

In Portland I used an ancient VW van as my recycling center, and it was always full to bursting. In all other houses my residence has been declared by the extraordinary amount of recycling in the bins.

Nowadays no matter how hard I work to haul it away, every storage cupboard on the boat is stuffed with empty bottles. I love the stuff. More than any food, or cinnamon jelly beans, or cute fluffy kittens. When I don’t drink it my skin cracks and bleeds, but hey – maybe I can switch to plain? Cause who knows what the carbonation is rendering to my innards, would be the logic. Or something. I think I need to go drink some more tap water now.

Happy New Year!

Have trouble keeping track of where I am at any given moment? Me too!

Right now I’m sitting in the lodge at Loveland – literally on the Continental Divide.

I was born below sea level. High altitudes make me queasy! And no, I will not be skiing. My mother says I’m not allowed. My kid is, however, welcome to ride those terrifying lifts if he so desires.

He is at least a cautious sort; his sister at the same age was notorious for managing to take herself to the wrong mountain and have such alarming adventures she was rescued by ski patrol not once, but twice – after the park closed. Yep, this is me in a knitted cap. Revel for ye shall never see this in real life. Cheers!

 

12.27.2007 selected

An article I wrote for the Guardian was selected by the readership as one of the Best of the Year.

Want to know what I was rattling on about? Click for more.

 

12.23.2007 lock

I did not even vaguely attempt to do any holiday shopping before Friday afternoon.

After rampaging about the Bay Area for what seemed weeks but really amounted to about six hours (pretty good considering I don’t know my way around) I finally had it all covered.

Exhausted, I shoved the loot in Jen’s bedroom closet, closed the door and turned the latch.

Not realizing that the satisfying click meant that I had actually locked the door.

Or, more importantly, that said lock has no known key.

Jen was highly amused – in all the years she has lived here it has apparently never occurred to her to turn that particular knob.

This is now officially the Christmas Mommy Hired the Locksmith to Liberate Our Gifts.

Ho ho ho!

 

12.21.2007 borrowing

I have migrated to Oakland, where I am borrowing an apartment from an old friend. The first thing I found when I opened the kitchen cupboard was a mug featuring the name of a long-closed coffee shop and the slogan A Place to Be. By Youth for Youth.

Normally I would have frowned and immediately blocked the whole thing, but since I’ve acquired appropriate and timely emotions the sight made me wince in pain.

Twenty years ago my entire life centered on the creation of something called the Youth Initiative – and the corollary establishment of an autonomous multi-purpose center where we could do whatever we liked.

The coffee shop idea started from my particular vision but it was a group project. Ten or so people worked collaboratively to establish nonprofit status, raise money, work the media. I was the person with the clipboard, directing (KTS would say badgering) everyone to work together toward what in retrospect was quite a lofty goal.

The pain and rage of the car accident had stripped away everything else, and I threw myself into work as an imperfect solace. The Youth Initiative was the center of my life, the one thing keeping me alive long enough to testify in the lawsuits. It was the all-consuming passion that occupied me as school and friends were beyond reach.

My accomplishments inspired people to write my letters of recommendation for university, convinced half a dozen scholarship boards to fund my continuing education, put me in the papers and on television.

It was also the place where I learned everything I needed to know about organizational chaos, the limits of idealism, and the endemic nature of human corruption.

I remained fully committed until the whole thing was launched and viable, but eventually left to go to college, distancing myself from the group because I felt it really ought to be run by the people who used the facility.

Jen K remained on staff for a few more years, and helped navigate the eventual closure, a pattern she would repeat in other jobs. She was literally the last one standing when one of the most spectacularly famous dot.coms succumbed to bankruptcy; it was her hand that locked the door on the last day.

Toward the end of my grad school career I went back to do a case study about the Youth Initiative (participatory research methodologies, anyone?) and was not at all surprised to find that the project had been hijacked by well-meaning adults who imperiously directed that the activist portions of the endeavor – condom distribution and environmental protests, for instance – should be eliminated to pander to the foundations that gave us money. Of course, once the idealism vanished, the project died.

During the course of my research I obtained all of the institutional archives: the newspaper cuttings, videos, television clips, awards, the tangible documentation of what we accomplished.

By the time I finished the case study nobody was around to take the files back. The whole muddle is intact on a shelf in the basement of my Portland house. Jen K has the cups, t-shirts, posters, ephemera.

We’re both just two kids from the county who somehow managed to stumble away. The fact that we have this strange, complicated history is amazing. It is an honor and privilege to know her so many years later, and to be a guest in her home.

 

12.18.2007 years

I’m currently perched in a twelfth floor hotel room in downtown San Francisco and it is so nice to be back in the states. Mmm, guacamole…

 

 

12.16.2007 years

Earlier this week I looked about vaguely and realized that Jean had not joined the festivities. I texted Rachel to inquire and she answered He was kicked out, yo.

In other words, deported.

The government took away one of my favorite playmates! I sincerely doubt that the new immigration rules were intended to round up conservative legal scholars with posh accents.

 

12.14.2007 flummox

Today I went to the post office to fill out a change of address form. Except, you know what? In jolly ye olde world they require proof of identity for such niceties, and I lack sufficient documents.

I do have a passport, with the relevant work visa. I do not have any secondary evidence of existence like: credit cards, utility bills, bank accounts, driving license, television license, council tax, mortgage or lease agreements, government benefits forms, UK Voter registration.

Yes, it is true…. I am living almost completely off the grid at this point. If I had extra passports I’d be just like Jason Bourne! The woman at the counter very reluctantly accepted my mooring license whilst commenting Now that’ll flummox em!

 

12.13.2007 panic

The sketchy cafe where I receive postal mail went out of business unexpectedly. While I was in Rome.

Panic!

But some of my fellow boaters run a postal – slash – courier service out of a shed somewhere down river. Problem solved!

 

12.12.2007 tears

Yesterday morning was bright and sunny and I dragged myself over the river to a hotel, where I said goodbye to one of my dearest friends. We both have cold dark hearts so there were no tears shed, at least not publicly. Though later on the boat I built a fire and listened to music he gave me and felt quite catastrophically sad. I am not a naturally friendly person; it takes extraordinary effort for me to participate in simple social endeavors.

Instead I always choose the big, difficult, brilliant, exhilarating, and treacherous options. I like to perform, I like to throw feasts, I like to be surrounded by intense love. He asked when I will be back in Seattle and the honest answer is not until next summer, maybe not even then.

I have been invited to Budapest and Brazil and and and…. I really do want to lay around Capitol Hill apartments watching movies, and drink champagne in fancy restaurants with Mark Mitchell, and stand at Laura’s karaoke altar laughing as she tells me she has no sympathy for my problems.

The most significant of which is the fact that I love people scattered across the face of the earth. This has been a year of departures and change; I seem to be the sort of person who is always leaving something or someone behind.

Goodbye is my permanent state.

 

12.11.2007 weather

When I walked into the pub Rachel hollered Bee! Bee! Will you make out with me and ruin our friendship??

I laughed and said No!

During the course of the evening she inevitably seized my phone to send racy text messages to faraway friends. Then to make things really interesting she called a friend in California to talk about the penis of a mutual acquaintance.

No, the two ladies have never met. And I doubt either has direct knowledge of the penis in question.

In her texts Rachel informed assorted people that we were having sex in the bathroom which is of course a blatant lie; somebody else was, but not me! I care about hygiene. Just so you know.

How did I contribute? Hmm. I seem to recall telling the wealth of Williams about a dinner party that ended in a conquest for a certain academic…. and my storytelling skills were sufficiently graphic (and loud) that it cleared a strip of tables around us.

Though I disappointed Rachel with the fact that I have no local scandals or gossip to relate since even the most wicked of the crew have been behaving since she departed.

When I wished everyone a fond goodnight Rachel surveyed the evidence and exclaimed You even have a hot ass!

I retorted I have a hot everything! Then flounced away toward the river.

As Sarah always asks, how exactly does that girl get away with so much? Quite a mystery. Though Cambridge is way more fun when she is in town.

 

12.05.2007 cute

I’m in Rome, staying just off Campo de’Fiori, and have been zipping around in a fog of bliss because I love this city so much. Why did I wait six long years to come back?

Though I have been here three whole days and nobody has whistled at me. Pondering the fact I decided that this is because I am no longer cute (my preferred explanation). Though, alternately, it could be down to the fact that Jody evokes the bouncer archetype. I asked his opinion and he replied The latter, presumably.

He could be right – the only time I get unsolicited and unwanted attention from random strangers? When I am wandering around with Gabriel or Gordon.

One of my academic friends suggests that I should do an empirical study of whether people whistle at me when I am alone. That of course involves paying attention – so I will have to practice.

Tonight I took myself out to collect data but admittedly only as far as the grocery store to buy a Kinder Egg. I suspect I will need to go somewhere featuring, erm, other people. If I want to test the hypothesis.

On the way back to the hotel I stood about admiring the feral cats of Largo Argentina and it occurred to me that Gabriel is at heart a courtesan and as such, while he is always charming and adorable, he also enjoys his little schemes. Around me this often means pushing the edge of my inherent chaotic obliviousness just enough to force me to see a situation in a new way. While this often creeps me out, he finds it amusing.

I heart Gabriel. Gordon, on the other hand, has no clear mandate. I suspect he is either a trouble or a freak magnet.

 

12.04.2007 weather

My mother wrote to inform me that my home county has been declared a disaster area and that Gorst (aka the site of the first commercial airline in the NW, and the town where my paternal great-grandparents had a dairy store built on stilts over the bay, though memorable to real life friends who listen to my stories for more disturbing reasons) is under water.

This is indeed remarkable – I have never known the place to be so comprehensively destroyed, not even when the Hood Canal Bridge blew away. Major good wishes to those in the path of the weather.

 

12.02.2007 facts

Triangulating from various suggestions I attempted to make butternut squash pie (total failure) and then locate an alternate source of, well, anything.

One of the mad scientists had a rare practical glimmer of a thought and asked the caterer of the Death Star harvest feast where to purchase the raw goods. We hit on a fairly obvious solution the same approximate second – Waitrose!

For those not from ye olde world, this means Insufferable Yuppie Grocer, located at least favorable faraway point.

Today I went pillaging in yonder distant village to find comestibles. After quite a stark panic attack I found that which I was seeking…. and I was so excited to locate Libby’s canned goods, I literally batted them off the top shelf.

Twelve cans of pumpkin delicious goodness rained down on my head, and I hopped around with glee! Short-cut, yes – so be it. Whatever! I am covered with flour and egg and generalized goo and it is 1:45 in the morning and the fourth pie is in the oven.

The smallest facts are often the most important. Thanksgiving has arrived!

 

12.01.2007 closed

The Bus Stop has been closed for a couple of weeks, the entire block scheduled to be demolished to make way for condominiums.

I don’t know exactly how or why I managed to have an intimate relationship with a bar – I had never previously hung out in drinking establishments on purpose. Let alone planning my trips around the activities of fellow residents.

But it happened, and the single short year I had access to that splendid strange small community was vastly rewarding in every possible way.

What made the place so special? It was just a tiny little slice of real estate without any dominant cultural theme. If anything, those of us who congregated routinely were the strays, caught between other places and groups and people. If we had one trait in common it was, simply, that we did not fit better elsewhere.

Jeffrey dragged me there in the first place. Mark Mitchell took me in and made me stay. Ade, Zack, Michelle, Greg, Susannah, Niki Sugar, and Rodney served me an endless supply of sparkling water, wit, wisdom, and hilarity. If not for the Bus Stop I would never have met the illustrious Laura, and through her Jody, who managed to mysteriously become one of my best friends.

Who else? So many I cannot even begin to list – from genius folks like Kurt, Holly Chernobyl, Xin, Anouk, Sophie, onward through scores of brilliant beautiful people.

Under the auspices of this establishment and these people I learned how to flirt; conduct Ladychat; accept a compliment; and say I love you to someone other than my children. Can you imagine? That is a whole lot to comprehend – especially at age thirty-six.

There was of course scandal, subterfuge, and drama – it was, in fact, a family. In the end various people divorced themselves from the experience but I’ve remained friends with them all – and I do appreciate that I am lucky to know each and every one.

R.I.P The Bus Stop.

I’ve been talking to the farmers and they tell me there are no pumpkins anywhere in Cambridgeshire.

Oh no!

 

11.25.2007 party

Yesterday I was on the boat gleefully poking yet another hot crackling fire when Gordon called to chat. He somehow manages to extricate all sorts of secrets, scandals, and rants that are normally never on display – perhaps because he is the only person who ever calls?

More critically, he informed me that he is going to throw me a birthday party. Hmm. Reviewing mental files. That would make him (excluding family)…. the first person in my entire life to do so!

Despite, I might point out, incessant moaning about the issue. Jody actually beat him to the offer, but I can’t handle Seattle in the dark months. California wins by virtue of offering sunlight!

Instead, Mr. Wilson and I will go to Italy for a week to celebrate our sad winter birthdays. Right after that I take off for San Francisco, then Colorado, then San Francisco again. . .

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my friends?

 

11.23.2007 fealty

Thanksgiving is of course an arbitrary day plucked from all the rest to celebrate a specious and historically inaccurate event.

It is also a harvest festival, and a time to celebrate those gifts that we fail to actively acknowledge. One of the greatest for me is the liberation from home and hearth.

I left my country of origin on purpose; I didn’t want to, but it was harder to stay. History and politics are complicated. I appreciate and sincerely love the place I grew up, and all that implies, good and bad, without feeling any fealty to the landscape or those who created me.

I may never again have the option of an extended family Thanksgiving; my mother visits for a month every year and I go to see her whenever possible, but it rarely matches public holidays.

This does not mean that I ignore the traditions altogether, it just means I replace them with a truthful equivalent.

For the last seven years my Thanksgiving centered on dinner with friends (originally just Stella and Al), building up through the years to massive feasting. Last year I hosted thirty or more adults and an unknown number of teenagers and children.

Since the day itself has no meaning I always throw my party on a nearby weekend to coax Londoners and other scattered people to attend, and this year I won’t even begin preparation until December.

When I ask the assembled expats what they are thankful for, do you know what the most common reply is? Health care.

Beyond that, of course, we celebrate friends and family, the active experience of creating community, making food, talk and laughter, the sheer genius of everyday life.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who choose to celebrate!

 

11.18.2007 stunning

Yesterday I went to see Helvetica, a documentary well worth the price of admission just for quotes like Bad taste is ubiquitous and People confuse legibility with communication. Though there were also many voices in support of the font.

Earlier in the week I attended an Imperial War Museum screening of archival films under the title Occupation and Resistance. These were a mixed lot, with the perspectives of both sides represented, particularly the German occupation of the British Channel Islands.

The scenes of the evacuation of Strasbourg were eerie, the images of British police driving and saluting German command hilarious. Le Journal de la Resistance was on another level altogether, and should be screened more widely. It is a short film shot from behind the barricades (without staging) as the Resistance took back Paris.

The IMW version is narrated by Noel Coward and is simply stunning. Very few war films or documentaries capture the reality of the action in all the gritty small details. I started to cry in the opening credits and didn’t stop until I was out on the street.

 

11.12.2007 predictable

Rachel just accused me of being predictable! I would normally agree but must lodge a protest, as yesterday I went to the shoe store to buy ugly orthopedic elf shoes …. and came home with knee-high leather boots that lace up the back! This is quite a shock. I haven’t worn high boots since 1989 – the year I could not be parted from psychedelic miniskirts and peacock sunglasses! Shivers.

Back to normal programming: I also discovered a web site that sells eco-carts. How exciting!

I ordered a cart at eight last night and it was cheerfully delivered to the boat at noon today. I stood about in the mud, hands clasped in rapture, watching as it was installed. Then I biked around gathering all the items I need for winter on the boat!

 

 

11.09.2007 house

Today I was standing in Fopp waiting for my daughter to select some merchandise.

Bored, I picked up a book called Punk House. Not expecting much at all I flipped the book open…. to a double page spread of Anna Ruby in her bedroom at 19th Street House!

I shrieked with delight and commenced to jump about madly. Then I paged through, staring at photographs of the equally beloved Chicken House, the pink trailer STS sleeps in, stoves that have provided endless cups of tea and shared meals, beds I’ve slept in, Chorus friends, and and and….

My companion passed by again and I wailed I want to go home!

The reply? Shut up! Portland is not your home!

Good point. Though my eyes were leaking as I stared at the image of a refrigerator, hunting for my kid’s old school pictures buried under all the stickers and show posters, the detritus of a life that has moved on without us.

I miss the old neighborhood.

I miss my disreputable, falling down house, with spray-painted stencils on a porch crowded with chairs and toys and people.

I miss my own wee triangular bedroom in the doghouse dormer, empty save for a mattress, with white shiplathe walls and battered shipmetal gray wood floors.

I miss the magical thing-breeding basement, safe refuge for those who needed it, costume cupboard to all.

I miss Chorus practice, and puppet shows, and all the parties, even if I would still refuse to dance.

Most of all, I miss my friends.

 

11.08.2007 visit

I just ordered recycled firewood. I am so excited! I love my boat. Also, guess who stopped by to visit?

 

11.07.2007 happy

Last night Laura texted to inform me that she was weepy at the inscription page of my book and has been crying with suppressed fervor ever since.

Jody also recently braved the experience, and though he never cries about anything he felt safest reading in brightly lit public places.

I’ve promised them both a happy ending, but when I told one of my editors he was astonished.

He said The book definitely does not have a happy ending!

I said Yes it does! Dude.

He said At the end you [quote suppressed to retain mystery for those who haven’t read or failed to notice]. Not happy! Not at all!

I shrugged and replied Now you’re debating the nature of existence.

He replied Yes, I am – and the definition of happy endings!

I said It is my story, and I say it has a happy ending!

He said Then what does that say about your cracked notion of reality?

My reply: That I’m a better Existentialist than Jean-Paul and Simone combined!

 

11.6.2007 words

One night recently I went to dinner with friends of various nationalities. Early in the meal one of the scientists started to make fun of Byron’s new suit. Turning to me he asked Don’t you think it looks gay?

I blinked and asked Why is that your chosen insult? I would consider the observation a compliment!

Baffled, he replied But Byron isn’t gay!

Looking him straight in the eye, I said Prove it.

The woman next to me gasped and started to laugh.

My friend looked baffled. What did you say?

Someone whispered a translation but it was hardly necessary – he heard me, he just didn’t want to believe the implications of the statement. Enunciating each word emphatically I replied I said prove it. You have no direct evidence of his sexual orientation.

My friend said He has never hit on me!

Byron joined the discussion at this point with a cheery Perhaps I don’t find you attractive!

Several heads were swiveling back and forth; the person who started the whole thing rejoined All gay men hit on me!

I rolled my eyes.

He tried again The waiter is gay, and he hit on me!

Now this was an encounter I had actually witnessed, and I laughed. He wasn’t hitting on you. He is just friendly and queer! I’m sure he will be my new best friend by the end of the meal! [An assertion that proved true – the waiter was even referring to me as such within thirty minutes, without overhearing any of this exchange.]

Various other hoary stereotypes were trotted out and Byron and I verbally assassinated each one, until the friend weakly accused me of being PC. Hmm.

If those initials stand for Polite and Considerate, maybe so – on occasion. Persistent and Cruel is more accurate. Politically Correct? Hardly.

On other occasions I might have put a stop to the debate with that old bystander, the wrist-flicking jerk-off sign that indicates dismissive disdain so eloquently.

Why did I continue to argue? Because my eleven year old kid was sitting next to me. I have no idea if my children are gay, and it doesn’t matter – they will have peers who are. It is critically important that they grow up knowing that all varieties of sexual orientation are not just tolerable but normal and healthy.

My offspring spent their formative childhood years clasped to the unwashed bosom of the queer punk underground, but that isn’t enough – it is easy to find a comfortable ghetto to hide in. I want more, for myself and on behalf of all the kids I know. I want to change not just my small corner of the world but also the public dialogue.

Children need examples from life but also the intellectual framework to deconstruct whatever messages come from the larger society. What is the alternative? How many of my friends have been humiliated, vilified, injured? Lost their homes, families?

How many people, regardless of later emancipation, carry around needless shame? How many choose not to survive at all?

This week, in separate incidents on opposite sides of the world, two seventeen year old boys in my circle of acquaintance were attacked. Both times the word faggot was invoked as the reason for the violence.

One of the boys ended up in the emergency room with a broken nose. The other was cut – his face slashed temple to chin. He might lose one of his eyes.

Why? Because someone though they were gay.

 

11.06.2007 bath

When downloading photographs of the evening from phone to computer, I found an overlooked picture from the summer… yet another in my obsessive need to catalog the best bathrooms of the world! I present The Palace:

 

 

11.04.2007 best

Jeffrey celebrated his birthday at the Bus Stop last night. The whole gang assembled, including Sophie, Jody, Laura, even Byron…. oh! How I wish I had been there! Best of all possible birthday wishes to the big guy. I love him, miss him, and can’t wait to see him again! Jeffrey Henry is simply the best!

 

11.04.2007 anniversary

It has been exactly four years since my last cup of coffee.

What a woeful fact! I love coffee with a sincere and vivid passion. I am, after all, of pioneer stock from the Pacific Northwest!

Lately I’ve been thinking Maybe I can try a little…. just one sip…. an experiment….

Though my tummy does not at all agree. Spending four hours in surgery having black sludge and scar tissue scraped off your internal organs does tend to be memorable.

 

11.03.2007 anniversary

Earlier in the week I popped round to the wine shop and the fellow at the desk asked about my trip to Paris: Work or pleasure?

I answered They’re one and the same!

He laughed and asked I thought you hated talking to strangers, and therefore hated your work?

I opened my eyes wide and replied Oh no – strangers scare me. But I only get recognized in the states so all is well!

He was baffled but had no follow-up. Of course, I regretted revealing even a hint of my secret life.

I am sure that it is hard for local observers to figure me out. Obviously not an academic, but employed. Rushing to and fro, throwing parties, attending others, buying lots of wine for various nefarious purposes, not to mention the astonishing amount of water I order and consume. Jetting away to glamorous destinations every few weeks. Running around with visitors ranging from circus performers to raggedy musicians to uptight scientists, from all over the world.

Disheveled, tattooed, either reticent or giggling with wild abandon, “very strange” would go the assessment. Plus, I prefer my white wine served at room temperature. What a puzzle!

Yesterday I was at the wine shop again and the other brother asked what I was up to this evening. Just watching some crap tv, eh? Or will you be working then?

I looked down and realized that I was holding a package from my publisher. Very much against every natural instinct of my upbringing, character, and habit, I opened the packet and said This is my work – my book, translated to Swedish!

Shocking! Impossible! Simply insane! I don’t do that!

He was very impressed and said it was too bad his brother was away celebrating his wedding anniversary, as he speaks the language and would be intrigued.

Turning the object over in his hands he asked tentatively What is it… about?

It is a memoir, I said. About danger!

He blinked in astonishment and we actually chatted about the whole thing for a few minutes. Then he asked if I might have an extra copy he could borrow.

Oh, you can have that one, I shrugged. I don’t know the language!

Excellent, excellent! I gave them a crap anniversary gift so this can be the real one!

The notion of my book as tribute to a marriage is quite interesting. Or alarming. Or something.

I pulled out a pen and signed Happy anniversary!

 

11.02.2007 dragon

During the Paris trip I let my son make all the major decisions about our activities in tribute to his birthday, and he elected to go to Disneyland for a day.

Of course we started in Fantasyland, with Dumbo, followed by Peter Pan and onward through all the other attractions. As we flew through a simulated nightime London sky I reckoned my mother would be proud; in her lexicon, there is no greater treat than the Magic Kingdom.

Then I remembered the last time I’d been on the ride, or zipping through the Haunted Mansion, or leaning against the rail on the Mark Twain steamboat attraction, or marveling at the genius of Small World, my aunt was next to me.

Today is traditionally All Soul’s, the Day of the Dead, Commemoration of all the Faithful Departed, Defuncts Day, depending on what you believe and where you grew up. I was not raised with the tradition, but do agree that these few days of the year are a transition – the bridge between autumn and winter – and as such have an eerie appeal.

My family is not religious. Even when they thought I was dying, there was no recourse to prayer, no solace in dreams of an afterlife. We are stoic atheists brought up to understand, collectively, that life is what you make it. The past and the future are at best a story left untold, and nostalgia is the most dangerous feeling in the world.

Of course my grandmother also talked to ghosts and had an eerie prescient knowledge of our whereabouts, particularly when we were in peril. This was not a great comfort as she watched brothers and three of her children die young.

My aunt, like too many others in the maternal family line, did not live to see her fiftieth birthday. I think about her every day, and I am angry, and sad, though never confused. I could say that I miss her, but I’ve been missing her since the day in 1979 she walked away from her home.

It was her choice to die, nearly thirty years after she broke our hearts for the first but not last time.

Of all the many choices in her life, death was one of the most merciful, and definitely the most anticipated. I do not share my grandmothers relationship with the spirit world (even if many people refer to me as creepy), but my aunt is haunting me: literally.

On the day of her funeral my shaking hands were covered with ashes when I stabbed my ringing mobile silent, and the gray matter seeped into the mechanism. Now my numbers, alarm, and music are prone to erratic changes and failures. How like my aunt – and how perfect.

She possessed a ferocious intellect, scorching wit, fantastical imagination, and scathing sense of humor. When I refer to her as my Dead Junkie Auntie I do so with the suspicion that she would approve – the description is accurate, but also funny, and in my family that absolves almost any trespass.

If we’re not formed by our experiences, we are at least shaped by what we encounter. I grew up in a family that loved and protected miscreants of all descriptions, and I learned from them not tolerance (oh no) but rather sheer delight in the chaotic excesses offered by the world.

Murderers, liars, thieves? So long as they are amusing, they’re all invited to the party. My ability to wander so far from home with such huge enjoyment is contingent on a vast curiosity instilled by people who never moved more than ten miles from the homestead, people who did not even elect to stay alive.

They never submitted to false authority, never let anyone rule their lives, brains, hearts. They pushed hard against all boundaries, and they gave me those skills, along with direct orders to get out and fling myself at something new.

Beyond that my aunt gave me a very specific gift, and I should have thanked her when I had the chance. All those dinners with her nodding off in front of the Christmas tree; the times I picked her up from jail, or psych units, or emergency rooms; helping raise her semi-abandoned baby son through a fraught childhood; watching my esteemed grandmother suffer – I was paying attention.

My aunt is the sole reason I have never, under any circumstances, willingly used drugs. Not socially, or in the hospital, or after surgery, or after the accident, not even when I thought I would die.

 

 

11.01.2007 domesticity

This is the time of year it hits like a virus – domesticity is upon me once again! There is no doubt why the infection happens; when the cold snaps, I spend my entire waking life focussed on preventing my body from going into legitimate shock.

I wear six or seven layers of clothing, keep my pockets and mittens stuffed with heating devices, and clutch a hot water bottle nestled in faux fur to my person whenever feasible.

When I talk about the dangers of cold, I’m not exaggerating. My right arm in particular turns a peculiar shade of blue and loses all sensation except the darting, needle-sharp pain of a deep freeze. When one arm goes the rest rapidly falls, until there is no way to raise my core temperature aside from complete immersion in hot water. This, of course, is not convenient on the boat – so I try to avoid the contingency.

Mostly throughout the year I can be found standing in odd corners reading books, and when pressed for anything beyond boat maintenance point out mildly that I do not cook, or clean, or care. This is true – I have not only a job but also a social life, and you know what? I like it when other people cook for me. Even if I have to pay.

But for three short months of the year my hands are so horrifically cold there is no better place to stick them but a sink of scalding hot water. Clean dishes! Clear sink! Oh, what next? Do I cook normally? Why no! Though at certain times of the year I look for every possible excuse to keep the stove cranked up… leading to such wild flights of fancy as (old-fashioned rare breed) apple crumble baked in fruit shaped ramekins!

Today I built my first fire of the year – and a grand conflagration it was!

Truthfully, I have always been rubbish at lighting viable fires, even though I enjoy burning stuff. I’ve been on the river three whole years and it seemed like I learned nothing – every winter the learning process started right at the beginning again.

Hard to believe I was ever a Campfire Girl! I really hated sleepaway camp though.

This morning when I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and sat down with my kindling and matches I was sure that it would be a smoky, messy failure – but no! Within a few short moments I had a merry twinkling and then a nice cozy boat!

Holding out until Halloween meant that there were several days of shivering with hot water bottles, but it was worth every second of the wait!

A few weeks ago I was at Bacchanalia and one of the fellows furrowed his brow and said On Saturday I was walking down the river. Did I see you … washing…. a boat??

-Um, yes.

-Why?

-It is, um, mine.

He blinked in astonishment – clearly I do not radiate the sort of wholesome outdoorsy energy prevalent in my fellow boaters!

Nor do I wear the correct uniform.

The day I scrubbed the hull I was dressed in a pin-striped skirt, black turtleneck, and of course, the ubiquitous sunglasses and lipstick.

 

10.26.2007 idyllic

I’m in Paris and tried to find the Garden of Childhood Fears at Parc de la Villette but got lost and decided to ride the carousel instead. Yes, I really do love merry-go-rounds this much:

 

10.20.2007 luck

Ten years ago Don Syme used to sit on the floor of the living room playing with my infant son. When he moved away from Portland he left his car in my backyard, and there it sat rusting to bits until a tree fell on it… at which point I rolled my eyes and gave it to my junkie auntie.

He never did have good luck with cars – his next vehicle was bombed in London. Later he was part of the conspiracy to send me to Italy with Gabriel, later yet the direct reason I moved to England, not to mention the first to suggest I would be happiest on a narrowboat.

Oh, how the years have flown! Now Don has his own sweet babies, and this week a major geek out because the Corporate VP of Microsoft Developer Division says of his work: <b>This is one of the best things that has happened at Microsoft ever since we created Microsoft Research over 15 years ago.</b>

For more information about  F# click here.

 

10.19.2007 idyllic

To torment the people who really ought to visit by elaborating on the idyllic life here, and at the same time perpetuate the sense of relief in those who have escaped, I offer some photographs of Cambridge in the autumn.

Our local version of a traffic jam (and oh, that girl has very poor punting form – you are supposed to stand on the end, not down in the hull):

 

People who know my stateside self might be surprised to hear I spend most of my time communing with the wildlife, and by that I do not mean people who dwell in nightclubs:

The most entertaining part of my daily routine is wandering through the countryside – these are the famous Grantchester Meadows (you’ll have to imagine the squelching):

This is the main route from Jesus Green, where they used to burn people, to Midsummer Common, which is a plague pit, both now mostly featuring rugby games and couples making out:

 

 

10.18.2007 name

Did you know that the first hospital in the territorial Northwest was built by a woman, from scratch, according to her own design?

Eleven years ago today I was lying on my side in that very hospital (though obviously, not the same building) rapidly bleeding my way toward a transfusion, arguing about what to name the baby.

The nurse hesitantly suggested that we could discuss the matter after surgery, but I didn’t expect to survive the day, let alone the hour. Choosing a name before I lost consciousness was of paramount importance. A few minutes before they slashed me open to rescue him (without the benefit of modern niceties like, oh, anesthesia) we decided to just give him all five names under consideration.

Of course he couldn’t pronounce the mangle and went by the nickname Abba until age four.

That sensitive premature infant is now a broad-shouldered lanky youth almost tall enough to look me straight in the eye, though still young enough to curl up on my lap – even if we both topple over in the process.

The intervening years have involved all manner of adventure and mayhem, and he has responded exactly as you might have predicted knowing his infant self.

He gave up suits and bow ties recently but retains his essential style, and his quiet watchful good humour. Brilliant, precise, creative, with a sophisticated sly wit: this boy is a joy to know. I am honored that he is my friend. Happy birthday to the most charming young gentleman! Oh, and of course – his Hogwarts letter arrived right on time:

 

 

10.15.2007 wishes

Gordon called last night and we chatted about all manner of topics including the upcoming party but I completely failed to wish him happy birthday in advance. Now I’m reduced to being merely timely!

Many happy birthday wishes to the cheese guru! He was the first person to crack my telephone phobia, and remains one of the few I’m willing to talk to on the cursed device. He has provided invaluable support through assorted adventures, bereavements, and scandals.

Throughout the accumulation of years he has provided substantial services as a social interpreter, explaining the puzzling behavior of his fellow humans. Most people think that I am mysterious but he knows that I am just clueless and backwards, and for that I am grateful.

Gordon has thrown me parties, let me crash at his place, and sent me on the road with snacks. Going way beyond the call of duty he even visited me in this cracked little city – and confirmed that, yes, this is the least likely place I could ever live.

Only a few people knew when I moved out of the country and the ensuing chaos would have been unbearable without someone solid to mock me along the way; for that and all the rest I am endlessly thankful he is my friend.

 

10.12.2007 oyster

Satnam sent email with detailed instructions about the wine he preferred to have with each course, and I presented myself to the fellows at Bacchanalia as petitioner and supplicant.

Normally it would be rude to turn up at a dinner party in England with three bottles of wine, but not in this town – and definitely not when visiting Satnam! In fact, he sent Susan on a wine run before we’d even made it to the appetizer course.

As predicted there was much merry debate. Satnam and I are the sort to shout and pound the table while laughing so much we can hardly breathe.

Don warned me that Cambridge would not prove to be my sort of place, and I in turn told Satnam, yet here we are, having a wickedly fun time while also pining to get back to Seattle. It is nice to spend time with people who understand.

Plus, who needs good restaurants when you have access to an epicure like Satnam? Food at his table rivals the Michelin starred establishments I’ve visited, and I’m not exaggerating. He even made me eat an oyster; nobody else could pull that off for sure:

 

 

10.11.2007 revolutionary

The other night I was out with Satnam and a different Glaswegian asked where I’m from. I offered the briefest possible geographic description of the forested peninsula where I was born and he was visibly shocked, then exclaimed You are descended from anarcho-Finn revolutionaries!?! I’ve never met one of you before!

Interesting point, but I doubt it. My people were Sami, and if they had political beliefs they never mentioned it. In fact, they pretended to be Norwegian.

Of course, I’ve never met anyone so well-versed in the obscure histories of the pioneer settlements where I grew up. It was quite baffling! But that is Cambridge for you…. the place is crawling with experts.

 

 

10.5.2007 creepy

I was hanging out in the cafe at the Arts Picturehouse with my kid and the barista pointed at my necklace. Is that a real bug?!

-Yes!

He shuddered, then raised his eyes to my face. Oh, are you the one who was in having photographs done?

Sigh. I’ve avoided the place for six months to erase the traces of that horrid day! Yeah….

-Are you famous?

-I hope not.

-What was it for?

-A newspaper.

-Which one?

-The Guardian.

He reared back in surprise. Really? What was the article about?!?

Here I break with tradition and a lifetime of reticence, not to mention localized anxiety, and told the truth: I wrote a book and the article was about….erm… me!

He stood there, glass in hand, blinking in astonishment. Really? What is it called?

Lessons in Taxidermy.

The youth in question was, at this point, over-stimulated – to say the least.

Ooh, he said creepy!

I replied Indeed! Cheers! then scurried back to my seat.

See how much progress I’ve made? Though if I can’t go anywhere without being recognized I might need to move to a new country.

 

10.4.2007 initials

Last night at a show I stood in line to check my coat and noted in an idle fashion that everyone was required to give initials for the receipt.

When it was my turn, before I could offer the information, the man at the counter did not say a single word… he just wrote BL on the tag.

Um. Strange! My brain seized, then I looked up – it was Alistair, the very nice man connected to the labyrinthine process of getting a mooring license!

Of course I lack social graces, and didn’t know what to say, but it was very nice to see him!

I love everyone and everything connected to boat culture in this town.

 

10.2.2007 determined

The students are back full force. Lines down every aisle at the grocery store! People in academic gowns teeming the city centre! Bicycle traffic jams!

One of the more interesting aspects of life in this college town is the cyclical infusion of youth. Particularly at the start of the academic year, the anxiety and excitement are palpable – and it is in fact endearing.

The only thing I have to compare is Olympia in the late eighties and early nineties, with flakey hippies and jaded hipsters wandering around in a haphazard fashion. The vague impressions I have left of that campus are all about looming modern concrete buildings, open spaces, enroaching forest. I’m sure there were occasional crowds for protests or performances, but there was never the overwhelming swarm of Cambridge in term time – nor the manifest sense of optimism.

Fifteen years ago I was sitting on a bench at Evergreen having a gloomy conversation with James when this very tall boy in a rugby shirt wandered over and joined us. It was his housemate though they barely knew each other – a boy named Byron, who didn’t have much to say.

We were all twenty-one, but my companions were still trailing through their undergraduate studies in a casual and what I would have then characterized as irritating manner. They could afford to – they didn’t have a small child to look after. It was my first day of graduate school, and I was grimly determined to acquire the credentials necessary to find a decent job.

On that day Byron was just back from a year in Spain studying literature. How did he manage to switch to science at all, let alone do a PhD in mathematics without any formal background? I don’t know, but I’ve found the whole thing quite entertaining.

The fact that we’re all three still close friends is astonishing; who would have guessed that of such a fractious, melancholy, scandalous crew?

I certainly never would have predicted it, let alone how quickly I abandoned my first career, or that we would all wander so far from the Pacific Northwest – having genius adventures and glorious fun along the way.

 

10.1.2007 technology

One afternoon in London I was chatting with friends when Anika picked up a call from KC, on tour with Himsa in Germany. I took the opportunity to check my phone, and there were texts from Rachel in Montreal, Jody in Israel, family members in the states, and a voice message from Gordon in San Francisco.

The remarkable thing that strikes me every day is how technology makes it so much easier to sustain friendships with people scattered all over the world. It would be much harder to live so far from home without these tools – and vastly more difficult in times of woe.

Last night UK time a dear friend sent a message from Seattle informing me that he was having an asthma attack. This is fairly normal but I was worried because last time around he nearly died (not exaggerating). Since I didn’t hear anything more by the time I woke I presumed he was fine.

This morning I had wandered way past Coe Fen and the Clare College nature preserve, walking off anxiety about a different faraway friend who is having surgery this week, when I got a message from Jody. It was past two in the morning for him when he reported Jeff said X had an asthma attack and he couldn’t reach him and I haven’t been able to hail either of you…

Then Jeffrey, in an entirely different time zone, got in touch with the same concerns.

Despite the fact that I was half an hour walk from civilization I was able to search my email, find the numbers, and track down the friend in question – alive but not feeling well at all.

Standing in the middle of a cow pasture on the other side of the world I sent messages letting people know the details of the situation, asking for advice on emergency rooms, arranging rides.

It is unnerving to be so far from a loved one who needs help, and endlessly wonderful that modern technology gives me at least a semblance of connection in a hard moment. I was able to continue with my normal day, phone near to hand, waiting for Seattle to wake up so I could hear that a dearly beloved individual made it through the night.

Once again, my friends are simply the best. I am honored beyond words to know them.

This morning I asked my son if he had good dreams and he replied I never remember my dreams which is quite annoying, because our homework right now is to keep a dream journal.

I said Oh no! Maybe you can borrow some?

He answered in a resigned voice I doubt that is allowed.

This is one of the rare days I remember a dream, and it was about my aunt.

I was standing in her living room, blonde baby boy on my hip, and she was sober – this bit was historically accurate; she was clean a decade before her death. The room started filling up with people I never see because they live far away, like Jon Rietfors, and people I’ll never see again because of the choices they’ve made.

I handed the baby to my mother, who was laughing, and went from person to person, urgently trying to get their addresses and phone numbers. My aunt walked in the room and she was crying – something I personally never witnessed in real life, not after her accident, not any of the times I picked her up from jail or rehab, not when her mother died, never, not even smashed out of her mind.

Someone asked what was the matter and she said she had learned something about her boss that would force her to quit. I knew the job and sobriety were connected and tried to convince her that we could figure out a solution, but she kept crying.

Looking around the room for assistance, I noticed that more than half the crowd went to Evergreen. I held out my hand and said We can seminar the problem away!

They all laughed, at least.

Then I woke up and pulled the blanket up over my head, contemplating the alarming fact that even my subconscious is pragmatic. Though it was nice to see my aunt again.

 

9.28.07 tie

I’ve been sorting through digital archives, and one of the things I found was covertly filmed footage of an ordinary ferry ride. I was bemused to watch myself, bedraggled in a tattered vintage dress, with pink and white striped hair, walking around with a four year old child in a suit and bow-tie.

Memories are curious; I actually do recall that day, and approximately what I was thinking about that summer. What I’d forgotten is how it felt to be so entwined with a small vulnerable human, that we could not handle being more than a few feet from each other.

The tape documents how we used to wander, touching every few minutes, aware of the other person and very little else about our surroundings.

Parenting small children is a tactile experience. Their immediate physical and mental needs are of paramount importance, to the exclusion of much else – even if you have other responsibilities or desires. This isn’t a choice, it is just part of the deal.

All babies love me (the same is true of abused dogs and lost tourists), but the only toddlers and small children I’ve ever enjoyed have been my own. Taking care of them, while sometimes difficult, has never been a chore. I have been delighted by their individual, alarming, dramatic selves at every stage of life.

I don’t just love them; I enjoy and adore them. This was of course no guarantee that the feeling would be reciprocated as they grew up. I know that lots of attentive, loving families break down, that grown-ups make their own choices. I’m not the sort to expect fealty, or filial devotion of any kind.

They owe me nothing.

It is a surprise then to have a ten year old who still wants to hang out with me. And a grown-up, fully launched daughter who invites me to go to concerts, not because she needs a ride or cash, but because she actually likes me.

It is an honor to have the opportunity to know them.

 

9.26.07 tasting

I am currently being persecuted by a vile illness: the sniffles! After I dropped my kid off I stopped to buy water and the Bacchanalia dude said Care to try some wine?

Furrowing my brow, I brilliantly replied Huh?

He said There is a wine rep – a new line – you should try it!

Oh, shivers. I don’t know how to do that!

He laughed at my stricken expression and said Go on!

-Do I have to?

-Yes. It is mandatory!

Obedient for once, I reluctantly walked to the back of the shop, where a very nice Australian man explained the differences between, um, grapes. I think. It was confusing, I’m sick, and I didn’t know where to look. Now I have officially gone to a wine tasting. With a head cold. How horrifying!

 

9.25.07 tie

Last night I arranged to meet Josh at the Maypole – haven’t seen him since the spring, and that is a long time given that he is one of my favorite people!

When he arrived I gleefully inquired How are you?

He spread out his arms and replied I never know how to answer that.

Easy, I answered. I always say I’m awesome!

He retorted I’ve been here too long for awesome!

We were served by the bartender who winks at me, then retired to the back room to catch up. He mentioned that he flies to Seattle this week and I excitedly offered lots of tips, then realized he probably won’t enjoy hanging out at either the Bus Stop or the Crescent. I rattled off a series of stories about Seattle that are only available in person, late at night, and we laughed and laughed for hours.

 

9.22.07 solitude

I spent the better part of the last two weeks in London enjoying the peace and quiet of the borrowed flat. It has been exactly a year since Iain and Xtina loaned me their place while they were away, a fact that surprises me.

Looking back at the journal entries from that visit, I am amazed at how much has happened in twelve months, and how much has remained the same. The cataclysmic and entertaining events of the year have of course made an impact (the death of my aunt most of all); in some ways I am hardly recognizable as the same person.

But in all fundamental matters, nothing has changed. Last year I was already planning a trip back to Seattle within moments of arriving in England; this year I am making a choice between San Francisco, Montreal, or New York.

In my peregrinations I walked from Finsbury Park to Alexandra Palace, criss-crossed central London, wandered at will through countless neighborhoods. I went to the same museums, pondered the same subjects, ate the same flavor of jellybean. I worked while simultaneously convinced that I was wasting time. I was homesick for the Puget Sound while also pleased to live so far away.

I mourned the people who have died, was perplexed by those I will not see again, felt delighted by the changing relationships with those I still choose to know.

I went out with the East London Massive, hatching a plot with Peter that will have huge consequences on my daily reality. I guided Anika around London, telling her scandalous stories and reminiscing about impoverished rural Northwest childhoods.

I successfully evaded the attentions of a stalker who wanted to party – um, no thanks.

Mostly though I elected to be alone, because the darkest part of the year is approaching. Building up a reserve of quiet solitude is not just important but critical – and these independent days in the city, walking, thinking, writing, were a true gift.

This life is a constant surprise in many ways, most of all in the generosity of dear friends. I cannot possibly thank Iain and Xtina enough for all that they have offered, and all the wonderful times still to come.

 

 

9.19.07 phenomenal

When I arrived in Cambridge I went to the post box and there was a package from Gabriel waiting for me. I was distracted by the usual flurry of arrival nonsense so my brain didn’t properly understand what I had in my hands.

When I turned the pages to the index, it felt like my heart literally stopped – it is a 1961 catalog from an exhibition titled Six Photographers. Featuring Ralph Eugene Meatyard.

In my opinion Meatyard is one of the most important practitioners of the medium in the previous century, with a body of work far superior to any of his splashy contemporaries. On a personal level he certainly influenced me more than any other artist of any description. His photographs have been vastly more meaningful to me than any book I’ve ever read. In short, Gabriel is the best ever!

 

9.18.07 weather

It was already autumn when I flew back here in late August, though the dudes at Bacchanalia assure me that summer never happened. Now the weather has advanced from bright and crisp to cold which is very exciting – fall is the best time of year here! Except of course spring, when all the baby animals are born. Or winter, when the city is empty and misty. Or summer, when hordes of strangers descend and roll around in the parks….

I think it safe to say I enjoy the weather in England. I definitely understand why locals spend so much time talking about it!

 

 

9.17.07 chapter

The other day I met my agent for lunch in the West End. We haven’t seen each other since the spring and she cocked her head expectantly but I held my hand up in the Boy Scout pledge and said I swear, I’ve caused no recent scandals! I was excessively pure and innocent all summer!

After some discussion she believed my assertions, but that just opened up the conversation for an investigation about what I’ve been doing instead. Which is, well, not much!

Or at least, nothing that can be published, because I threw away the stuff I finished over the summer. This is of course exasperating to certain people, not least my literary agent, but it is also how I’ve always worked. I produce very little, very fast, with long gaps between each session.

To avoid the inevitable chastisement I hurriedly offered up the funeral story. Susan was nicely distracted throughout the rest of the meal, and we said goodbye on good terms. Hours later I received a text pointing out that my anecdote would be an excellent first chapter for a book.

Sigh.

 

9.15.07 amused

Anika is opening a branch of her business in London and flew in from Seattle last night. We met at Trafalgar Square, and when asked what she might like to do, the reply was I need socks, and a haircut!

Fair enough, and honestly, this is the best kind of guest – concrete goals are easy! We set off toward Covent Garden, everyone chattering away, and both goals were accomplished easily with stops at M&S and Hair by Fairy.

It was barely noon when I asked what she wanted to do next, and her answer was predictable: Let’s get a drink!

I guided the group to the pub at Seven Dials, where we had a rollicking discussion about life in the UK, much to the consternation of Damian, who will be heading up the office. He lives in Sammamish, for goodness sake. Now that will be an epic culture shock.

Everyone would have been happy to stay there but I’m too pragmatic for such antics, and pushed the group out the door to eat lunch on Brick Lane. My stateside friends were bemused at the typically hostile service, but three years in this country has toughened me up. Menus smacked down, strange attitude, shouted complaints? Standard! The fact that the toilet was flooded? Also completely ordinary for an English restaurant.

What was not normal? The fact that the waiter, at the end of the meal, asked in a very concerned voice Was everything ok?

-Yes, I replied, amazing!

He cocked his head and said You haven’t been here in ages.

Surprised, I told him that I’ve been traveling. Who knew that the dudes at the restaurant recognize me, and care if I fail to turn up!

We wandered through Shoreditch in the sunshine chatting and laughing. At one point we were in the restroom at Vibe Bar and Anika commented in her bright western voice I think it is a fantastic plan to store the toilet paper on the floor!

As we walked out to rejoin the others she stopped in front of a vending machine that dispenses sex toys, exclaiming in shock Ten dollars for a cock ring?! That is fucking insane! How do you live here?!

Good question, really. I guess the answer is – because I can, and because I am easily amused.

 

9.14.07 bash

I stayed in Portland an entire weekend – that is a record for me! Normally the experience is too bittersweet and I bolt, but it was Marisa’s birthday – what a temptation!

My daughter skipped the Zine Camp party which was unfortunate as it was great fun and an opportunity to catch up with Sara, Meadow, Dennis, countless others.

Six years ago I ran away from home and holed up at Gabriel’s mountain house outside of Aspen. This kid named Justin gave me a ride back to Denver, I took a shower at his parents house in another ski resort, and we talked for hours about love and life.

Who would have guessed we’d end up putting out books with the same publisher, hanging out extensively in NYC, and that later yet someone would get in touch and ask me if he would be a good person to head up the IPRC? It was awesome to see him even if only for a few minutes. Also Nicole, and Lli, and all the children who have grown so much in the five years since I left!

We went out to Sauvie Island for the birthday bash. Byron mysteriously acquired an infant and Beth chased him around the beach hollering Tall man, give me that baby!

With Stevie at the beach:

 

 

9.12.07 idealism

The day before I left the states I was standing on the foredeck of the Mukilteo ferry staring at the receding landscape and idly chatting about topics like Whatever happened to the Mukilteo Fairies?

Though honestly, I have no recollection of seeing them perform – my Olympia years were a blur of studying, working, testifying in assorted court cases, conducting semi-clandestine love affairs. By the time I finished grad school I was already working in government; it seems unlikely that I attended many queercore shows.

Reminiscing about those years, I asked Byron if he remembered the point where my youthful idealism had been stretched so thin by bad managers and cynical stakeholders that I developed a misguided plan to throw away the career implementing civil rights laws and join the ferry service.

He blinked in astonishment; apparently I failed to mention it to him (we weren’t especially close at the time).

Half of my family worked on the ferries, and I thought it sounded quite tempting to spend my days on the water. I only changed my mind when I realized my college degrees would make me a manager by default, and I had no intention of letting that happen ever again – let alone with the possibility of being senior to my uncles…. at age twenty-four.

Just then I turned and spied, ten feet away, the very same person I handed my resignation letter to twelve years ago!

He was not the bad manager – I had the director fired before I left, obviously.

I pointed out the coincidence to Byron and he laughed, then reminded me that nobody from Olympia would recognize me now. Why don’t you go say hello?

Baffled, I asked Why would I? What would we talk about? The fiscal mismanagement and ruinous controversies endemic to the agency?

Byron said You could catch up!

Um, no.

 

9.11.07 grail

Today I went to the Hunterian to pensively stare at the skeletal remains of Caroline Crachami for awhile before I meandered off to the V&A because I’d heard a rumor of a Lee Miller retrospective.

Too early! It opens later this week – color me excited! Then as I moved to depart, wonder of wonders, what did I see in the European Galleries? A very sketchy looking man with a unicorn tattooed on his neck! This, if you may recall, was the ultimate holy grail in our Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks!

I stood there gawking, then realized he might mistake my fascination for prurient interest and scurried away before the dude could talk to me.

Lurking in the sculpture gallery I rapidly texted Ana Erotica to let her know I’d spotted her man. Maybe fate will throw them together one day! Though she has lately been trying to date Very Smart Boys, even if she doesn’t find them hot.

 

9.10.07 tie

When I repudiated January I gave myself a different day to celebrate my birth. This is the second year running I forgot about it.

Last night I took myself out to a solitary dinner and read about the scandalous lives of poets, then watched several hours of television (quite the anomaly and treat). It was so much fun I overslept, by approximately a whole day, and had many lucid dreams involving Seattle and Portland and Cambridge and London friends all converging at the Maypole for much hilarity.

I think I even roller skated. Happy fake birthday to me!

 

9.9.07 best

Heather Jackson has resigned from producing Girl-Mom.com to pursue other projects. Please join me in thanking her for two years of tremendous work; the job is extremely difficult and requires a very specific kind of sensitivity and strength. I’ve been amazed and admiring of how she has collaborated with and assisted the community – and with her patience over various technical quagmires. Heather is a truly impressive woman, mother, and colleague. I wish her all the best in the future!

 

9.8.07 coincidence

Last night at 2AM my phone received a call from an unknown number. I would have answered – I was awake and in a fantastic mood – but didn’t hear it as I was elsewhere. It was Gomyo ringing from Japan – now that would have been an entertaining conversation! This afternoon another unknown number called. Learning to use the telephone is so odd and intriguing; answering from a “caller id called withheld” is like buying a Grab Bag at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop!

This time it was Rachel asking for dating advice and I exclaimed Because I’m so good at that?!

We had an excellent chat as I ventured toward Jai Krishna, amazed that the day was warm and balmy. It is a custom to go there for the Iain birthday celebration, so I associate the place with brutal cold. Poor winter babies! Jody wants to come over and throw a joint birthday party, but as I pointed out, England is actually closed that week.

I glanced up from contemplating the menu and recognized the tattoo on an arm wandering by. We’ve never met in person but I would know Ally anywhere. Very much against my normal hesitant (not to mention oblivious) routine I reached out and tapped her arm and said hello. Great fun, lovely woman, expat solidarity!

My agent texted to invite me out to bear boy burlesque but with all the coincidence in the air today I decided to retire to the borrowed apartment rather than risk it. Who knows which person from my past I’d see at that show!

What advice did I give Rachel? Make yer move! Don’t process! Be a man!

 

9.7.07 killers

Earlier today I was on the boat reading up on the history of the San Juan archipelago including the extremely fascinating Pig War (and jotting down notes on 3×5 cards – because yes, my sophomore summer is apparently transitioning to junior year AP mode) when Iain called to tell me scandalous secrets.

I have officially advanced in phone etiquette to the extent that I occasionally speak instead of just giggling – amazing! Over the course of the conversation Iain reminded me that I have access to his flat for two weeks while he and Xtina are on holiday. They are the best ever! I feel so lucky that we met – knowing them has enriched my life beyond imagining.

Right after we said goodbye my phone started ringing again, this time with an unknown number. I surprised myself by answering – and a good thing too, because it was Jody calling from Israel to tell me about photographing graffiti in Yafo and reading newspaper reports about NIN at the Wailing Wall.

I offered to introduce him to one of my assorted Tel Aviv friends and he exclaimed He might be a serial killer!

I answered I know serial killers, but he isn’t one, I swear! I would tell you!

 

 

9.4.07 specimen

Just before I ran off to the states for the summer I submitted to a series of blood tests. Then I promptly forgot about the whole thing. When I arrived back in the UK and checked six weeks of accumulated mail there were several letters from specialists at the teaching hospital trying to arrange appointments, including a tedious new survey from medical genetics.

The stack also included a letter stating The result of your blood test has now arrived back from the laboratories. Please could you telephone the surgery to speak to Dr. X to discuss….

Now, if everything is fine, they just send a badly copied slip of paper with cryptic notes saying essentially all clear. So, as of Saturday afternoon I was aware that my blood work might indicate one of two things: Option A, cancer-suppressive medication needs to be adjusted. Option B, new and lethal cancer has been detected. Either way, this is significant news. My meds haven’t been changed in ten years, and if it is necessary to do so I’ll have to go to numerous tedious appointments at the sinister teaching hospital, with lots of people gawking. Alternately, if there is cancer brewing somewhere inside me, it is a variety that has limited treatment options.

Welcome to my annual Big Cancer Scare, four months early!

I’ve been through this too often to get excited. I certainly did not let the news detract from my weekend, or the residual glee over a truly excellent summer. That is not to say that I felt sanguine, or that I was in denial. I just declined to panic.

When I am truly frightened the experience is visceral – my body goes into a modified state of shock and (regardless of the temperature) I start shaking with cold – deep, incurable, disastrous. Thinking about my own mortality while waiting to call during office hours did not freak me out.

If my DNA dictates an early death, that is hardly a surprise; I’m not inclined to die at the moment but I’ve had more time than I ever expected.

I do not proactively grieve. I rarely even feel that emotion when appropriate – I react after the fact, when safe. Throughout the weekend I felt variously exasperated and annoyed – but not sad.

During the course of the recent research on Sharing, Relating, and Ladychat it became abundantly clear that even if I can learn a few new skills it will be more on the level of a conjuring trick than a true ability to communicate about certain subjects.

My instinct to tell anyone about this round of medical drama was in fact nonexistent. Partly to protect people; my mother and friends do not need the burden of worry. Beyond that I’ve lost too many dearly beloved over this kind of thing, both over the course of this strange life and in the last few months. I appreciate that particular human frailty.

However, saying that, I don’t want to know which of the people I currently love will abandon me out of fear – or whatever.

I didn’t even remember to tell Byron until late on Sunday. He replied All the cool kids are getting cancer! It’s like the new tattoo!

Yeah, gallows humor does in fact help. Byron is rock steady in that regard. So, what is the outcome, what did the tests indicate?

My medication needs to be adjusted, of course. It is unlikely that I would have mentioned anything if the situation were more serious!

Sign me up for dreary meetings with excitable endocrinologists – they love me since my particular presentation of disease is so very unusual. Back to the experience of being a specimen. Fun.

 

9.3.07 follow

Last night I met Satnam at the Castle – it was excessively good to catch up on all the local gossip, including affairs and scandals and the news that someone in his field just sold a company for five hundred million dollars.

Yeah, really.

Satnam claims he followed me to Seattle, and later England, and whenever there is a hint that I might move again he flings himself to the floor in exaggerated horror. There are many secret adventures on the horizon for all of us but I opened my eyes wide and solemnly promised Next time I’ll follow you!

 

9.3.07 congratulations

Massive celebratory congratulations to Ana Helena & Chris on the arrival of baby Ursula!

I hear that Ana Helena was already performing with Ape Shape the next day. That girl is hardcore!

 

9.2.07 beauty

Back in the UK, land of strong tea and aggressive driving! My first stop? Bacchanalia, of course. I cycled over to buy water and chat about the weather; the jolly people who run the place are some of my favorite people in this town.

Last night I aired out the boat then wandered through the city centre at twilight, once again astonished, baffled, and delighted to live in a place drenched with history and populated by such demented and entertaining people. When I am away I always forget about the ravishing beauty of this city.

 

9.1.07 labor

The other day I was driving around Whidbey Island, singing along to the radio, thinking about performing with the Chorus, and I tried to coax my companions to remember those old songs.

Of course we still know all the lyrics to Union Maid and Rote Zora (including the German bits) but between us we could only come up with fragments of Sabotabby Kitten, Coal Tattoo, Dump the Bosses, Bread and Roses.

Finally we gave up and defaulted to Caleb Meyer – there is nothing quite like a murder ballad to round out a bright sunny day of wholesome fun! Why did a union chorus perform that one specifically? Well, we also did The Pill and My Big Iron Skillet.

Yes, it was quite a spectacle, particularly when my (then nine year old) daughter took the solo spot for songs about gender equality and sexual identity.

Now I live in a land where May Day is officially recognized, and I often forget the September stateside nod to the working masses.

Happy Labor Day!

At the start of the summer I took my son to the Pike Place Market so he could buy a dozen doughnuts from the same stall I remember from my own childhood. While he ate I stood reading posters for Hugo House, ZAPP, zine readings around town, punk rock yoga and baseball, Plane Crash Theatre, free bikery and herbal medicine clinics.

There were signs for countless shows, scavenger markets, queer stitch and bitch, a multi-media event at a house called Undersea Volcano of the Squid Overlord.

Through the window I could see Left Bank Books across Post Alley: the first store to buy my zine way back in, oh – 1984? Cafe Counter Intelligence is gone, but will forever be the cafe by which I compare all others – and now I know for sure the coffee was in fact world-class. I could smell Tenzing Momo, and hear the fishmongers hollering and throwing their wares.

As I was growing up the street in front of the market was mostly porn and pawn shops. Central Gun was the lone holdout for weapons, but it disappeared this year. The Lusty Lady is still holding on, but she is now in the shadow of a luxury condominium development.

In my lifetime Seattle has changed substantially, not just in terms of different stores, new buildings, the mutating face of an evolving city. The people who populate the place are different too – demographic trends could be plotted on a chart, but the larger point is, the place feels different.

I’m typing this while sitting on the floor of a furnished apartment with a view of the Space Needle ahead of me, Lake Union out the window to my left. The house I once owned is faraway on Beacon Hill and while I wish I could still live in it, I do not regret selling and moving on – I am simply thankful that I had those two years in that place, with a view of the mountains, as I wrote Lessons in Taxidermy.

J9 says that when she read the book she could smell and see the living room of that house, and I think that is the highest compliment anyone has ever offered.

The Kitsap Peninsula was my first home, and I can see those forests if I stand at the edge of Elliot Bay. I was hopelessly homesick when I moved away to college in Olympia, at the southern edge of the Puget Sound. When I abandoned my first career and fled further south I felt that Portland was a state of exile.

Brilliant, lovely exile – the place I made friends again after a long period of retreat, the place I learned to see, smell, sing, embrace people, ride a bicycle. Portland is puppet shows and chorus practice, long lazy days wandering from one house to the next, nights sitting on porches talking to loved ones and strangers.

My house there functioned as a community center, and it is an honor that Gabriel and Danielle live in it and maintain a high level of generosity and camaraderie; they’ve taken in my eldest child two summers running and I know that I can sleep there whenever I need to.

When I dropped my daughter off in Portland for her internship we drifted through downtown until she spied a cluster of typical scenesters standing on the corner next to Powell’s. She gasped and exclaimed People are real here!!

I blinked and inquired What do you mean?

She didn’t even think before replying They’re dirty! You know what I’m talking about!

In fact, I do – she means that this is the place were we fit best, where we understand what people are saying and also what they mean. Our friends here know us without knowing, an intimacy I rejected at the time but now appreciate.

The landscape of the Pacific Northwest is not just dear to me; it is part of who and what I am. Feeling crazy, sad, fragmented, alone? Just go sit on a dock, with your feet over the Sound, and all will be well. The only place I am completely, absolutely at home is within two hundred miles of the town where I was born. In fact, despite a childhood filled with trauma and horror, I love my hometown.

This is no exaggeration. Even if I choose to live faraway, in a beautiful and hostile city, my only connection with the new place is the work visa pasted in my passport.

One night at the Bus Stop with Susannah I was describing the differences between the various places I’ve lived and she asked if I was excited to go back to England.

I answered Not really.

She asked Are you sad to go?

No, I replied. I like the life I have in Portland, and the one I have in Seattle, and I like Cambridge equally well.

She nodded. So you’re happy wherever you are?

Yes, exactly – which is fortuitous, since I travel so much!

When I am away I do miss many things about the Pacific Northwest. The people, the places, the adventures, understanding what is happening around me; all beloved, but not lamented.

Cambridge is the most antithetical setting I could ever live in, yet I truly love the river, and my daily bike rides across the Fens. I’ve made countless new friends, some I would have met regardless, others I would never have encountered if I hadn’t moved there.

I’m thankful for it all, and would not change anything.

 

8.30.07 clarified

You know when you go to the eye doctor and they do that test to determine your prescription? With the flipping lenses, until you say That is it!

Living in Seattle is like that for me – everything is clarified. Of course, I prefer to wear glasses that give a stronger correction than is strictly necessary and thus have to fly to NYC because the place in Chinatown is the only shop in the world who will make spectacles for me.

But still!

Last night I went to Nickle’s seventeenth 21st birthday party, featuring countless fun friends and frivolity, not least of which was the fact that all the children climbed up to play on the roof. Except my son, who of course (and according to his own idiosyncratic desires) cautiously observed the action from the ground, wielding a walkie-talkie.

Later at the Crescent Laura held my hand over her karaoke alter and said deeply meaningful things I instantly forgot but absolutely appreciate. There were lots of amazing singers, and then another session of various people attempting to teach me how to High Five (with an argument amongst the experts about technique).

When it was time to go I hugged Sophie and Jeffrey for the last time, tears welling in my eyes. Yes, locals, it is true – I cried at the Crescent! Though I’m sneaky, nobody noticed. Lucky me friends were there to say caustic things that distracted me from the fact that I will miss this place and these people more than I can articulate.

 

8.29.07 memoir

Last night I spent a few precious final hours at the Bus Stop – it will be relocated or just plain gone by the time I get back, and that fact gave the evening a bittersweet edge. More on that later!

When I arrived David was standing on the sidewalk and he reached in his bag and said I bought your book – will you sign it for me?

I shuddered (I’ve successfully avoided all publicity related work this summer) then laughed and pulled out a pen. David commented We had trouble finding it at Powell’s – they had it filed under “Healing Memoir”!

Jody thought this hilarious and said I haven’t read it and even I know it isn’t that!

True. My cryptic little book is definitely not part of the self-help industry. Jody doesn’t know anything about my career and cares even less (a delightful trait in a new friend). The couple of other times I’ve been recognized or cornered by someone this summer he was always outside smoking, so of course he had to photograph this particular exchange.

David remarked that he is going to loan it to his mother and I replied Then I won’t write anything smutty on it!

 

8.29.07 adventure

Jody departs for Israel approximately the same time I leave for the UK and kindly consented to drive me around on errands. But when he picked me up at the ferry terminal yesterday afternoon I opened my eyes wide and said <i>Would you like to go on an adventure?</i>

Who could refuse? I mean, really. The fact that I would be navigating the way through Tacoma on a <i>hunch</i> made it all the more thrilling!

The arcade at the World Famous B&I Circus Store is exactly the same as it ever was – derelict and lovely – Tetris, anyone? My only grievance is that the air hockey console never works – not a bad complaint when revisiting one of the most important scenes of your youth.

Jody looked bemused throughout but we managed to hit not just the B&I but also the <a href=”http://www.roadsideamerica.com/attract/WATACjavajive.html”>Java Jive</a> (technically we just slowed down near it, I told the scandalous story of the last time I went there, and he pointed out that my love life has always been rather idiotic – true!).

This excursion was the penultimate expression of my sophomore summer. What was I doing at sixteen? Riding the merry-go-round at the B&I, of course! Best thing ever? Decorated hermit crabs. Then, of course, and executed strictly according to vague decades old memories, I found the Frisko Freeze – score!

 

8.28.07 anyone

I’m in that strange final phase of a long trip when there is way too much to accomplish but instead of running errands I have developed an urgent desire to go ride the carousel at the B&I store.

Now I just have to find someone to drive me there!

Last night I had a rushed dinner on the patio at La Spiga (yeah, a contrary concept, but if I want to linger over Italian food I can just go to Italy – what a pretentious thing for this Kitsap kid to say!) so I could make it to Smith for Happy Hour with the always amazing Mark Mitchell as bartender. Then it was a madcap scramble to gather up the gang to watch Superbad at Cinerama, though we’ve all (except Jeffrey) watched it more than once this week. Why? Because Superbad is super awesome but more critically, because that theatre is one of the best buildings in Seattle. <center>

Plus my lucky dress matches the bathroom:

My kid grabbed the camera to show that it also matches the hallway and as she snapped away said Look aloof and uncaring! Sing I Don’t Love Anyone in your mind!

I tried, and failed.

 

8.27.07 stance

Jeffrey persists in asking detailed questions about my sex life even though I have staunchly refused to answer over the course of five years. When I point out that I am unlikely to change my stance on the issue he just laughs and says I can’t help it, I’m a Scorpio!

Last night I relented slightly and gave him one shot at posing a direct question, but he blew it by asking something so obvious he could have predicted the answer: a resounding No.

It was the final night of karaoke at the Bus Stop before I leave for the UK, and the bar will be closed by the time I get back again. When I pointed that out to Ade the reply was Don’t say that, you are going to make me cry! Stay here with me!

Oh, how I love my friends.

Sophie, Jeffrey, me:

 

8.27.07 tattoo

My daughter called to tell me scandalous stories as I waited in the lobby for Jody’s tattoo appointment. When she finally got around to asking where I was she exclaimed Why are you there? To flirt?

I replied No way, I’m not flirting at all!

She retorted I don’t believe you!

I handed the phone to Jody and instructed him to defend my honor, and he accurately reported on my innocence. My kid informed him that he is a liar before rattling off a string of genius anecdotes, as is her habit. When I got the phone back she informed me that I am a dirty flirt – not true at all! Though quite hilarious.

As the day progressed I texted around to Rachel, Gabriel, Gordon, Ana Erotica, my kid, and assorted other friends and a joke evolved that I would get a tattoo of a bulldog with the words Dirty Flirt etched across my chest. Jody asked the tattoo artist for a quote on the work, but I hurriedly pointed out that I know lots of people who would do it for free.

I found it quite interesting to watch someone else getting a tattoo – whereas my own felt like nothing, and I giggled so much I was reprimanded for moving around, watching the ink accrue on a friend made me queasy. Jody was also nauseated at various points since he hadn’t eaten, so my primary job aside from laughing over the spectacle was running out to get snacks.

Laura showed up briefly, Ana Erotica broke the news that she was canceling her trip even though I have a host of Bad Boys for her to choose from, there was pressure from assorted people to ditch and go to dinner and movies, but I persevered, fascinated to watch the whole thing.

Over the course of the session I also developed a true and intense desire to get a new tattoo, and some vague ideas of what and where it might be. Given the impetuous nature of the summer I was about ten seconds from booking an appointment when I remembered that I will be on a nine hour flight back to the UK soon – and I really do not need to do that with a fresh, peeling, itchy wound on my body.

Though getting more work done is a perfect excuse to come back and visit! I remained at dutiful attention for the entire seven hour appointment, until the last brutal fifteen minutes. The pain at that point was unbearable to watch unless I could render aid, and I don’t know Jody well enough to hold his hand, so I retreated to the lobby and stared at flash. Whatever will I have inscribed on my body? Should I go back to Portland, or try Seattle?

Thinking, thinking….

 

 

 

 

8.26.07 home

Now as I look around, it’s mighty plain to see / This world is such a great and a funny place to be; Oh, the gamblin’ man is rich an’ the workin’ man is poor / And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore. -Woody Guthrie

Marisa came to visit and this morning I was up early to take her to the train station after a weekend of revelry. As we stood in Zeitgeist waiting for our tea and coffee she pointed up, and I listened; the cafe speakers were playing an almost inaudible version of I Ain’t Got No Home, a song we used to perform back in Chorus days.

Do you want to sing? I asked.

She laughed and shook her head. I’m too tired!

We’re probably the most reticent of all the Chorus members, but if a few others (Stevie, Mina, or Erin, for instance) had been around it is likely the cafe would have been regaled with an impromptu performance they might not have appreciated on what looked like a hungover Sunday morning.

The two of us were exhausted and running on perhaps three hours of sleep because last night we went to the opera to see Jeffrey singing in The Flying Dutchman – an excellent show. Our seats were great, center front row dress circle, a special treat to celebrate her birthday and seven years of friendship.

Marisa loved the music, and I tried not to pay too much attention to the fact that I was allergic to something or someone nearby, sneezing as discretely as possible. At the second intermission we met Byron for drinks then tracked down the smokers outside.

I asked Jody what he thought about the work, other than the anti-semitism of the composer, and he quite sensibly replied that he didn’t like the love story because She spurned the human person who loved her in favor of the creepy ghost pirate.

This pretty much sums up what I thought while watching. It is easy to fall in love with a concept, portrait, ballad, story – an abstract representation of another. It is far more difficult to take care of the people right in front of you, and of course more rewarding in the long run. Love may be ephemeral or it might last, but it is an emotion, not an action. Relationships are complicated and messy and if they are sustainable require commitment, attention, and work.

Give me Erik the Hunter over the Flying Dutchman any day.

Standing around on the sidewalk with friends old and new, I was thankful once again for the honor and privilege of knowing these people. Walking back toward the theatre Jody playfully smacked me in the head with his program. I blinked in astonishment and then said brightly Oh look – I didn’t even have a flashback!

Not that anyone should feel invited to repeat the experiment. Later we went to the Whiskey Bar for a Himsa record preview party, where I said goodbye to BP probably for the last time this summer, abandoning Byron to the vicissitudes of the metal kids and running away to the Bus Stop with Marisa.

We talked and laughed for hours until closing, when it was time for the (probably last ever) nacho party at Jeffrey’s bachelor pad. Sophie moves in this week – times are changing – and it was genius to stay up too late with dear people I will miss when I leave:

Shopping for beer in opera clothes:

David & Tamara:

Brian and Sophie cooking:

Jake and Genevieve:

Nachos:

Marisa playing the guitar:

 

 

8.23.07 anniversary

If it has been nineteen years since I met Byron Number One then the anniversary of my car accident came and went without the standard acknowledgment. Guess I was too busy.

Though I have been thinking about those years, since I continue to meet fellow Kitsap kids. I find it entertaining to spend time with people from the same place who do not share my DNA (or at least, we aren’t exactly sure if we’re cousins – the original dozen or so families are intertwined to an extent nobody can trace).

In fact, one overly dramatic evening I abandoned the party I was obligated to attend and went out in search of hometown friends – specifically BP, whose brother worked for my grandfather, and Helen, a girl I met on the first day of kindergarten and knew until we graduated. I’m so glad we had the opportunity to meet again as adults:

 

8.22.07 laughing

Last night I was hanging out at the Bus Stop with a whole bunch of people who don’t speak a common language and we kept dissolving into laughter as we tried to translate and communicate. Like I pointed out to Niki Sugar behind the bar, I barely speak English.

He agreed and replied Yeah, I only speak Hillbilly and Slur!

At some point Natalia walked up and said I was just in the bathroom and heard you giggling and it made me so sad because you are leaving!

Just then Byron Number One materialized and I shrieked with delight – I thought he was out of town! He said I heard that laugh from down the street and knew it had to be you!

Apparently my voice carries – how strange! He was rushing away to play Ms. Pac Man at Pony but told me that he is staging a new opera at Aldeburgh, on the coast near where I live in England. Hurray!

If you are local consider checking out his performance of Piao Zhu: Flying Bamboo this weekend at the Arts in Nature Festival.

 

8.17.07 show

My son flew in from Colorado at eight last night and he departs to see the other grandparents tomorrow morning.

What do two days of the summer with your mother look like if you are growing up in Chez Lavender? His choice: dinner at Typhoon, roller skating around a warehouse towed by excitable friends on bicycles, candy shopping at midnight, and snuggling up to watch several episodes from the first season of the Simpsons, of course!

Then what? Driftwood houses on the beach, playing at a park on Beacon Hill, and Uwajimaya:

Then on zero notice I rounded up whoever could attend to go bowling, including my daughter and three teenage girls I’ve now known nearly half their lives – it is so amazing to watch kids turn into adults!

My daughter brought the ashes of my dead aunt in a pill bottle (eerie, but I think Mary would have appreciated the excursion), guests included Susannah, Jake, Nickle, J9, Ailee, their children, Susan and Paul plus their girls, Jeffrey, Sophie, Ramona, Jessie, and Ivan, who kept bowling strikes!

Jody turned up with a friend who knew none of us and sensibly hung out in the bar – quite a hilarious scene, wish I’d known when I lived in the neighborhood. Jody nominated himself as bouncer but the evening featured no drama whatsoever. In fact, I laughed so much I lost my voice once again!

My son brought fortune cookies to share, and I definitely believed mine. The whole outing was, simply, genius!

 

8.17.07 show

If you are local and have the cash you should check out this show because Anouk is awesome:

 

8.16.07 hit

Last night I decided that I was exhausted and wanted to go home early. Except of course I had to drop by the Bus Stop to say goodnight to everyone. In other words, I surrendered to the vortex – I wasn’t even planning to have a drink, but Ade turned up followed by Xin and Anouk and…..

At one point I was standing around outside and one of the smokers said Hold this! and stuck a cigarette in my hand.

Staring down in wonderment, I realized that yet another of my statistical anomalies has been amended. Before last night I had literally never even touched one of those devil sticks!

I was alone on the sidewalk taking photographs of my hand when I realized a stranger was talking to me. This is normal – people always ask me for directions – but get this: dude was hitting on me. Blatantly!

I started laughing and answered Oh my goodness, strangers never dare! Can I take your picture?

He found that response baffling and kept trying to get the conversation back on track, at one point even trying to impress me with ghetto cred, NW style.

Since I grew up in the projects and had the most chaotic childhood possible this just elicited more wild giggling – yet still he persisted! How very, very impressive and strange.

 

8.15.07 nipples

Jody and Rachel (his sister, not Cambridge Rachel – but boy would that be interesting to watch!) were tired and on the verge of skipping karaoke on Sunday, but I persisted. Lucky thing too, or we would have missed Bethany singing The Pina Colada Song to celebrate her birthday.

Ade kept shouting This is illegal! No nipples! NO NIPPLES!

 

8.14.07 agree

Yesterday I stopped in Olympia to get water in the midst of an epic quest to get back to Seattle (five hours, people! And the I-5 closure was not even the source of the problem – we didn’t drive faster than ten miles an hour until we hit Centralia).

Normally I feel queasy when visiting that picturesque little college town. This time? As I exited the vehicle I bashed my permanently injured right elbow on the door, causing my fist to swing up and punch my own in the face – hard.

This was excessively hilarious and I was still giggling as I tried to pay for my two liter bottle of water. But then I somehow managed to jam my broken finger on the bottle and it went flinging out of my hands and flew across the aisle, hitting a salesclerk in the back before rolling away across the store.

Of course I literally could not breathe because I was laughing so much.

Creating a huge spectacle in the town where I wish to remain invisible? No problem!

Though that was not the strangest thing that happened on the drive – oh no. You know that billboard with the cranky and extreme political views? I agree with the sentiment for the first time in my entire life. How peculiar!

 

8.13.07 advice

Ana Erotica starts grad school at Columbia in the fall (I even wrote one of her recommendation letters!). Yesterday she called to say she wants to visit before school starts, but can’t make up her mind, and thus has officially put me in charge of the decision.

What would we do during the proposed trip? Hmmm. Remember the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks? Well, she finished her Christmas-theme smutty novel about the lumber industry. That means she will have an entirely new variety of Bad Boy to research!

Now, I am a pragmatic sort – in her position I would be thinking about which notebook to buy, not planning strange and murky adventures. But since I’ve abdicated adulthood, I cannot in good conscience give her that advice.

 

8.12.07 dude

Last night I could have gone to a Smores Extravaganza – I even had the secret Smores Code to find it (aka the address and name of the house). In an effort to convince me Dawn said I’ve never dated anyone better than smores!

This is an interesting and hilarious point, but I had to take a break from my PG-13 lifestyle to hang out in bars and talk about life, love, and immigration with Marisa. What can I say? I wish we still lived two blocks from each other; our friendship is one of the most significant relationships I’ve ever had with anyone.

I miss her every day, and I moved away five years ago.

Somewhere in the course of the conversation we covered the Learning Ladychat issue and I pointed out that we’re both dudes. Marisa exclaimed You’re way more of a dude than I am, Bee. You can write that down in your little black book!

Noted! Though I still intend to pursue this line of research.

 

 

8.11.07 extraordinary

I’m living a backwards sort of life but the last few weeks have been extraordinary – it really is like being sixteen again without, you know, the cancer!

Genius moment of the day: Stevie driving me around in a decrepit Volvo, blasting AM radio and singing along:

 

 

8.10.07 homestead

Today as I walked from visiting Erin Scarum at Citybikes to Three Friends to hang out with Dawn I was startled to pass a window that featured, um, Gabriel. I knew his gallery was around there but not the exact location.

There were people standing on the sidewalk extolling his virtues so I dared not enter.

When I texted to tell him that he replied Chicken!

My answer? Damn straight. Except, oh, that would be a lie…..

Some images from the homestead:

 

 

8.10.07 reunited

It took three years, countless email requests, and the dissolution of a publishing company, but last night I was finally reunited with the cover art from Lessons in Taxidermy!

 

 

8.09.07 intended

Obviously I didn’t go on a few of the potential trips already, but until the other day fully intended to fly to SF this weekend. KTS will be there! I haven’t seen Marcus since Las Vegas – six, seven years ago?

Gordon hasn’t had a chance to tease me in person all summer! I want to hang out with Fran, Hiya, Jonathan, Jen, Daphne, Amanda, and so many others I am neglecting to mention because I have been walking around in the sun!

But alas, the trip fell apart – mostly because I waited til the last second, but also because I am way overbooked. Today has been one brilliant excursion after the next, with an evening too full to describe. Next up is Zine Symposium, and Marisa’s birthday, and and and…..

 

 

8.08.07 soundtrack

I bought this laptop last November during an explicitly decadent trip to Seattle. Lacking any music whatsoever, I grabbed as much as I could from Jeffrey’s stockpile. Since then I have added a fairly random set of albums from my own trailing and odd collection along with whatever I could jack from friends.

I have not, however, organized any playlists since the week I turned the machine on for the first time. That means there are two options: Love Songs and Work Songs.

The second was originally titled Depression Songs, but my son objected. Love Songs are those I dimly perceive are about that subject, and play in the background when I am writing fairly positive stuff. Work Songs are those I hear as somber and play in the background when whatever I’m working on shares that mood.

Yesterday I was tapping my chin and thinking about esoteric subjects when I realized that the two lists are awfully similar, particularly since they’re both littered with identical songs.

While I believe Wilco is fractionally more upbeat than Elliot Smith, this impression can be attributed to the fact that I only know what the songs are about when I look up the lyrics – or someone tells me. I am Trying to Break Your Heart is definitely not, well, romantic. Who knew!

I should be more conscientious about the words I use to describe my personal soundtrack.

 

8.07.07 round-up

The funeral really messed with my schedule – my eyes were still swollen two days later! Yes, people, I cry.

Though in the context of my biological family that required locking myself in the bathroom to hide the torrential sobs. More on that later.

Now I’m back in the swing of it all but have failed to report so many things:

Somewhere in the madness of the funeral weekend I also attended Niki Sugar’s birthday party and the anniversary celebration for Anika and KC. When I heard that the date commemorated fifteen years of couplehood I opened my eyes wide and asked KC What, did you hookup when you were ten years old?!

He laughed and informed me that they were eighteen. How amazing! I don’t know any other teen couples that have survived that long.

At some point I was swept along with the same crowd to a show at the Block Party, though in reality that just meant standing next to a chain link fence listening to exactly nothing while trying to track down friends.

Later at the Satellite I was sitting next a Himsa dude and when I pulled out my notebook he asked Are you going to write a book about us? Why no – I was just scribbling a reminder that the last time I ate food at that bar I ended up in the hospital.

Later in the weekend I met Jody and Laura at the Block Party. They asked how the funeral was and I replied (truthfully) Tragic! before dissolving in giggles (as I do).

For once we did manage to see some bands. Jody heard or read that nobody has ever written poetry or songs for me, and volunteered with alacrity. I reckoned he was joking but no – he really did write a song!

Another night I went to a reproductive health fundraiser and was bemused to find people swarming all over my arm – having Breeder etched on your body is apparently quite amusing to this generation of activists. Who knew; I haven’t attended any of these events since I campaigned for Initiative 120 with a baby on my hip.

Washington has always been full of rabble-rousers and may well end up the last haven for reproductive freedom, given what is happening on the federal level. I was super thrilled to hear about successes like the statewide pharmacy and sex education rulings. Though my goodness, that took a long time – I was on the front lines of those fights in the eighties.

Later I was dragged off to Chop Suey where I watched an entirely delightful Piece open a show – gotta love someone rapping about the CD! But then the main act did not turn up. For hours. While we all stood around waiting.

Somewhere after midnight one of the barbacks told us that the main act didn’t “like” the audience and had gone all diva on the organizers. The bouncer confirmed this version of events.

Who knows what was actually happening – but in my experience bar staff generally have an accurate line on this kind of thing.

Performing is a job like any other. There are good days, bad nights, wearisome and troubling challenges. If you tour there is the complexity of the travel on top of the craftsmanship of the show.

Sometimes it is necessary to go on stage when you are sick, or sad, or lonely. Sometimes the audience is hostile, or nonexistent. So what?

In this country and particularly in the very small world of acts who headline shows at Chop Suey, nobody has been forced to go on stage. Performer doesn’t like the audience – oh, really? I have no tolerance for that kind of nonsense. I walked out. Now, whatever will I do with myself next? This summer remains unplanned – I don’t have a clue where I’ll be tomorrow. How unusual.

 

8.07.07 ironic

I am the luckiest person ever. Why?

Because I have such good friends! One of the highlights of the summer: Stella and Al visited from the east coast!

They took me out to dinner and presented me with a birthday present (they were both born in the winter so this was intentionally ironic) they made from scratch:

Plus, Al is growing his hair out to play an aging rocker in a movie – the plan is to film him dragging a huge amp from Pike Place to Broadway – hilarious!

I miss our champagne brunches, picnics on the beach, wandering through forests, yummy dinners in the shade of their backyard, and of course, being together at Thanksgiving.

But it is endlessly wonderful that, despite geographic distance, we are still good friends.

 

8.06.07 traitor

Uh-oh. Ladychat leads to all sorts of new trouble!

Anika is trying to tempt me to chop off my very long hair – without any planning or consideration! I haven’t worn it short since 1996. What do do, what to do?

Luckily she couldn’t find a salon with open appointments – saved by lack of planning!

Though I am now seriously considering the Complete Massacre of Hair, if I’d done it today then I would have missed out! Laura decided that I needed an Eighties Flower Girl do, and proceeded to implement this fantasy in the front row of Bus Stop while Ade intoned over the microphone I can’t believe Bee is getting her hair all done at karaoke.

When I left near closing Ade made the whole bar shout Bee, you are a traitor!

Though fully half yelled Bee, we love you! as a follow-up.

 

8.05.07 themes

The Bookatorium opening was remarkable in many ways, not least of which was the pure, brilliant, and innocent enthusiasm of the organizers.

It was also very much an underground punk event, Portland style – rare in this city! When I turned up Nikki clasped her hands together and said We just met and you’ve only been gone a few hours, but I missed you!!

Oh, Pacific Northwest – I love you! The main attraction was Benny, and it was honestly worth the whole hassle of downtown on Art Walk to see him working.

I asked David if he wanted a balloon hat and he looked at Jody and I all kitted out and replied No, I had a happy childhood, unlike you two!

Good point. The majority of my early life was given over to secrets, scandals, strife, and sorrow. Those are not the themes of this summer. Give me carousel rides and balloon hats!

 

8.04.07 developing

The other day I had a late breakfast at Glo’s with a group of people of indeterminate sexual orientation who identify as women – albeit the sort who do not have any relationship whatsoever with mainstream beauty standards or similar.

When I described the Learning Ladychat project a bike messenger in the crew was openly horrified and asked Why the hell would you bother?

I explained my admittedly quite esoteric reasons and she looked appalled, but then pointed at my mouth and asked Is that MAC lipstick? — and we were off!

The whole group fell into proper Ladychat for approximately four minutes before we realized, recoiled in shock, and did big congratulatory high fives.

Then we went back to talking about our more usual topics, like maggot-infested leg wounds.

This would be my primary challenge with learning – I never actually hang out with ladies!

Sasha is one of the few women I know with allegiances in both camps, but the last time I saw her she kept telling me that I’m welcome to rub my nipples on her eyelids any time I like. I presume such invitations do not constitute Ladychat, though I could be mistaken.

Yesterday I went to a Seafair party with the Himsa crew and found myself in a very (as the kids would say) hetero-normative crowd, split cleanly down gender lines as people lounged, played football, and went out on a jetski.

I hung out with Natalia, a lady to her very core, and had quite a fascinating conversation about life as an expat (she is married to a Spaniard and they go back and forth), raising kids, haircuts, and the fact that Byron does not look like a ladykiller. Just another example of why you should never judge by appearances!

We laughed and laughed for hours and at the end I asked for a review of my developing Ladychat skill set. Natalia opened her eyes wide and said It wasn’t at all unnatural or forced!

Sarcasm? Compliment? Either way, highly entertaining!

 

8.02.07 love

Last night at eight Dawn Riddle called to say Want to go swimming?

This was of course a baffling plan since she was supposed to be setting up the gallery, but she is a Portland person – time works differently down there!

I grabbed towels (the punks never think of these things) and headed for Mobius, where an hour passed with great hilarity and some impatience as various people joined and then wandered away from the group.

It was dusk when we finally made it to Madison Park. Dawn looked around and said I only have a bra and panties, these people look like a bra and panty crowd! before stripping off and racing into the water.

I sat on the grass as the sky changed from dusk to night, watching the stars shine and my friends cavorting.

Dawn and Jesse needed to clean up and wash clothes after so we headed back to my very odd apartment, where we gathered around the refrigerator, collectively amazed by the automatic icemaker.

My living situation this summer involves matching cutlery! A toaster! The amenities of grownup life I have never known! I could offer them seltzer but sadly nothing else – my cupboards are bare.

Marisa called around midnight to say she had run into my daughter watching The Gossip show at Berbati’s. Yes, it is true – my social life has now officially been invaded by marauding offspring! I told Marisa that my apartment was full of Portland punks and she replied What are you going to do tonight? Buy some PBR and sit on a porch? Did they arrive by bicycle after spending a lot of time talking about which bridge to take?

Hilarious! That would have been the usual scene but I decided it was much more entertaining to corrupt them with karaoke at the Crescent. We were talking and laughing so much I felt like I had dislocated my jaw.

At some point the issue of birthdays came up and I said something about January birthdays being singularly sucky. Jeff said I celebrated your birthday!

Sophie rolled her eyes and commented You mean on her birthday you thought ‘shit, I’ve gotta write Bee email’!

I replied Because myspace prompted you! Whereas, if you recall, I flew from England to hang out with you on your birthday last year!

Jeff tipped his hat, laughed, and said I’m working toward manifest destiny on a big guilt wagon! Go west, young guilty one!

This made me laugh so hard I nearly fell off the stool. Just then Jeff and Sophie fell victim to love jail once again and the rest of the crew made wretching sounds or covered their eyes:

 

8.01.07 learning

The Learning Ladychat research has thus far included a long conversation with a makeup artist who accurately guessed the brand and name of my lipstick and eye makeup, several discussions with assorted people at parties about topics so banal I could not keep track long enough to take notes, and – get this – an actual dinner party.

My observation is that the ladies mostly like to talk about exercise or beauty products (sometimes a combination of the two). They are also given to intoning things like I have horrible cramps over the dinner table.

People, that is a phrase I have never uttered! Beyond that, I do not want to know about your menstrual cycle, no matter how complicated and grotesque the details!

No offense intended to the ladies in the crowd – I am merely a novice at understanding your mysterious customs. This is not a LADY issue. It is a body issue. I similarly do not want to know details about your intestines, or testicles, if you have them. Ick.

Luckily Jody showed up to rescue me before I stabbed myself in the eye. We drove around the city half the night talking about proper subjects like literature, religion, and where people purchase crack (the venues have changed since I moved away).

Not because I would ever need to know. I was just curious about what my aunt might have seen in her last days.

The other night Laura listened to me explain the Flirting Research Project, Learning Ladychat, the laborious process of starting to use the phone after a ten year hiatus, and the somewhat random point that I’ve never imbibed an energy drink.

She said It’s like you’re my very own Alf!

Indeed.

Laura grew up in Kitsap County (though I never knew her back in the day) – but she has social skills!

In fact, she is a Master Communicator and one of the most empathetic people I have ever met. And also, of course, a hugely entertaining performer. Today is her birthday and I wish her all the best!

 

7.30.07 fascinating

This afternoon I picked my younger child up at the ferry terminal, where I somewhat randomly stumbled across the elder child just before she embarked on a journey.

She was sitting in the lobby checking out boys with R, the girl who lived with us for a year, and M, daughter of Sal and Yantra. My kid excitedly exclaimed M doesn’t remember meeting Gabriel – explain!

I blinked and replied We went on a book tour together – you were with your moms in a van, we were driving a Volvo, there was another van full of a band and roadies….

Even then she still looked baffled. I said Um, it was like a whole month and we drove from Bellingham all the way to Sacramento doing performances every night…..

Clarity! She at least appeared to have some dim recollection of the journey. How long ago was that? Six, seven years? These girls are all grown up now – almost completely launched – their childhood memories mutating or vanishing.

The fact that they can forget massively strange epic adventures with itinerant writers, artists, and musicians with complicated love lives is simply fascinating.

 

7.29.07 born

Thought of the day courtesy of my daughter:

 

7.29.07 cheating

Funerals are always hard, but my family version is fierce beyond explanation. I arrived back in Seattle with swollen eyes and disheveled clothes, and some friends correctly guessed it would be a bad idea to leave me alone. They didn’t even give me time to change.

When we arrived at the Crescent David looked at me and exclaimed What, no cleavage?!

I replied I’m wearing a respectable dress. Do you respect me now?

Then I informed the group that I was lightly dusted with dead human, leading to all sorts of interesting and macabre reminiscences of scattering remains, including the time David and family tried to discard his grandfather only to find that the tin was sealed and they had no can opener.

Continuing my recent trend of “sharing” and “relating,” when the bartender (not Amber, she was at the party I’ll mention later) told me she liked my glasses I said brightly I wore the scary ones because I went to a funeral today and didn’t want anyone to hug me!

The Crescent is the sort of place where a proclamation of that kind is completely understood.

Not long after, David and Jake announced that they were going home and departed. It was great fun to hang out and watch everyone sing, but when Jody also left the group had dwindled to me, Jeffrey, and Sophie aka his Hot New Girlfriend. Three is not a magic number when two of the people are in lovejail. Just a thought!

Jeffrey offered to make me his famous nachos if I waited til closing, but the Crescent is always odd at best, and an influx of people from the Block Party made the whole place rather intolerable. I decided to go home and sleep, but on the way was tempted by text and phone to continue on to a party downtown.

In the taxi I surprised myself quite lavishly by chatting with the driver, including telling him about the funeral. He informed me that I am beautiful, I was creeped out, and then I was at my destination.

Walking down the sidewalk toward Shorty’s some girl shouted at me Hey, I know you! Are you here for the party? I can’t find anyone! – it was the other person Laura introduced me to the other night.

I blinked and escorted her inside, and who did I find just past the door? David! I laughed and said Ooh, busted! You told Jeffrey you were going home to bed!

He replied I just stopped to see my girlfriend!

I told Jeff I was going home too – we’re both cheating on him! I’m gonna tell!

David rejoined You’ll have to tattle on yourself too then!

I pulled out my camera Not only that, I’ll give him proof!

 

 

7.27.07 coincidence

Last night I innocently went out to a cancer benefit karaoke thing because some of my friends were there. In a very cool coincidence, Laura (Crescent dj you might recall from previous adventures) was sitting with the Himsa crew. She had just met them – how amazing!

Though as the evening progressed the twists grew more and more strange, as everyone Byron has ever dated appeared – as if by magic. They all seemed sort of fretful about the situation, though I found it highly amusing.

When I realized that half the people I was sitting near were born and raised in the same odd place I was reared, the situation became pure genius.

I mostly talked to a writer/musician fellow I’ve never met though he is friends with Jeffrey – and the night was such an oddity I anted up the whole Disneyland with Junkie Auntie story. Haven’t told that one in awhile!

When karaoke finished Laura and Jody were the last standing of the group and we hopped in a cab to hit the hill. I was next to a freshly tattooed arm and thus became the recipient of the chant Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!

I don’t think a boy has ever said that to me before!

Predictably, instead of a new club or decadent party, we ended up at the Bus Stop. I can’t help it! Michele is super sweet! Skye almost accidentally elbowed me in the throat, but my ninja skills still work when I’m drinking, thank goodness.

 

7.27.07 round-up

Photo round-up!

Ade is beautiful:

Byron singing This Charming Man

 

KTS and Alison:

Sophie and Jeff are impossibly cute:

Nickle & J9 at the metaphysical carnival:

Sasha and Mike at the Crocodile:

I’ve been hanging out with people who tell more stories than me:

 

7.26.07 guide

Somewhere in the haze of this boisterous trip we were walking through Belltown and J9 stopped the whole group to admire Sasha’s shoes.

Byron said Look, Bee, that is ladychat!

I furrowed my brow and commenced to examine the reasoning and goals behind the need to compliment sartorial choices.

The actual ladies (that would include the two females plus Byron) tried to interpret and explain but got exactly nowhere. I remain baffled.

They shook their heads and told me it is better that I just refrain from learning this lesson, as fake ladychat is worse than being a dude.

This makes perfect sense to me, though I think that my skills in the area could be, well, polished.

Though I am now almost capable of receiving compliments! One example: at the end of karaoke on Sunday Ade made the whole bar yell I love you Bee!

And I didn’t even twitch.

We were in Belltown to attend a metaphysical carnival featuring a magician, death metal bellydancing troupe, and heavily tattooed psychic. Byron was sufficiently freaked out he traded seats to avoid an unwanted reading – though he was of course a target anyway.

The psychic stopped in front of Byron and said I like you. I know they dragged you here by the dick, but at least you showed up. I really like you!

 

7.25.07 drugs

Last night someone offered me drugs for the second time in my entire life.

I was so thrilled I squealed and threw my hands all over the place, much to the confusion of the individual trying to get me high. Then I texted a bunch of friends to inform them of this historic moment.

The consensus (even from the sober ones, tsk) was that I should take up the offer.

Yeah, right! As I pointed out, I’ve never smoked anything, at all, ever – why learn to inhale now?

 

7.24.07 working

If it is Tuesday I am officially “working.” So far that means sitting around in coffee shops languorously reading River Pigs and Cayuses: Oral Histories from the Pacific Northwest and checking my email. Shh, don’t tell my agent!

Monday started at Le Pichet with Maria Canada – definitely a fortuitous way to embark on a day that included extensive ladychat (poorly executed – but at least I tried!) and watching someone spend several hundred dollars on shirts.

How alarming. Even at my most decadent I cannot conceive of such actions – let alone patronizing a store where the clerks are too snotty to actually wait on anyone. Though it was great fun to observe the antics of the bourgeoisie!

Later I wandered over to Smith to say hello to Mark Mitchell and accidentally crashed his dinner date. During the course of a highly entertaining conversation that also included Kurt aka DJ El Toro and Byron one of us said something to the effect that I do not flirt and Mark shot back She flirts with everyone!

Byron and I both went into jaw-dropping, swivel-head, caricatured shock. I challenged the statement and Mark reeled off a list of things I do that supposedly fit the description of flirting. While it is true that I giggle and twirl my hair, as a general rule I would never act like that around anyone who might hit on me. I’m not stupid, after all!

If a stranger ever approached (and they don’t – I swear) the individual would get the arms crossed, brow furrowed, nonverbal why the fuck are you talking to me? signal.

Mark continued his analysis by pointing at what he refers to as my Legendary Milky White Bosom (LMWB).

Kurt sensibly observed that I can’t exactly help the fact that I have certain physical attributes and I nodded fervently and pulled out my notebook. Mark said She thinks she can tame it by writing it down!

Too true.

An extremely murky series of events eventually found me sitting with Jeffrey in a U District bar crowded with loud obnoxious youngsters. I indignantly opened the conversation with Mark says I flirt!

Jeff sighed and said I’ve been telling you that for two years.

I pointed at Byron. He flirts, not me!!

Jeff replied You have different affectations but you both do it all the time!

I continued to object and pulled out my notebook. Jeff laughed and said That’s the trouble with you Capricorns. You’re clueless but organized and always think “I’m sure I would have written it down if I’d done it…. let me check my notes….”

Just then Byron picked up a song from a passing car and started to sing You Don’t Bring Me Flowers and this reminded me of another research project.

I turned to Jeff and said Nobody ever brings me flowers or sings me loves songs, and nobody ever has!

He frowned and said I give flowers to all of my friends! Haven’t I given you any?

No, like I said, nobody has ever given me flowers! Nobody has ever written a song for me! Nobody has ever written poetry for me! I would have gone on but remembered that the last statement was not accurate and clapped my hand over my mouth.

Byron started laughing and said Tell him who wrote you poems!

I wagged my finger at him and warned Stop or you are in Big Trouble!

Jeff looked confused and said But you don’t even like poetry!

Quick thinker that I am definitely not, I attempted to distract him from a story I didn’t want to tell by saying You’ve dedicated songs to me!

He replied Yeah, lots of times…

Luckily Sophie showed up and talk turned to half-assed guesses about what hankies in back pockets signals in the subculture that subscribes to such things. The best guess was from Jeff, who wagered a certain color must indicate That you’ve read Lord of the Flies cover to cover!

 

7.24.07 trawl

Recently I signed up for a social networking thing but was in a rush and checked the box that allowed the site to trawl my email and add contacts automatically. If I thought about it at all, I was dimly pleased that I wouldn’t have to laboriously go through and find all of my friends.

A week or so later I received a message that read in part: I know you because you are a famous writer. How do you know me? Because you’ve sent me several rejection letters!

Yikes! We’ll set aside the putative issue of fame (yeah, right – I’m recognized in grocery stores around the world- whatever) for the moment and focus on the utter stupidity of giving a social networking site permission to snoop through my email.

What delights might the bot have found? Hundreds, possibly thousands, of email addresses of real-life friends, ex friends, abandoned acquaintances, ex-husbands and their assorted ex-wives and onward through the range of ex-in-laws, all of the cousins who are literate enough to have email, countless peripheral professional contacts, legions of magazine fans and subscribers and contributors, and every single person who has ever sent hate mail or a death threat.

Now remember – this internet thing has been my day job for over a decade. I’m painfully aware of the security risks of community organizing on the web. I’ve even been served with FBI subpoenas for server records, for goodness sake!

I really, honestly, truly knew better than to check that permission box.

I lead a very public life, but it isn’t necessary to do the internet equivalent of walking into a hometown bar and shouting Hey! Anyone heard from my stalker lately? I’d love to get back in touch!

In fact, I’m much more likely to do that (high school reunion, anyone? I can’t wait) than allow myself to be virtually connected with certain people from my past. I suppose I’m allowed to make stupid careless mistakes sometimes, though this might be edging over the quota for the year – and it is still only July.

 

7.23.07 daughter

My daughter is a rampaging genius, an artist, a raconteur, a sweet and sincere sister. She is one of the funniest and most dangerous people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, and that would be true even if we did not share DNA.

The girl was born fist first and facing the wrong direction, and her life thus far has fully warranted the symbolism of those moments.

It has been an unbelievable number of years since I held that little scrap of a baby in my arms, surprised to find us both alive and setting off on such a grand adventure.

It is never easy to grow up and my kid has endured many challenges – and arrived on the other side still laughing.

Born in poverty, dragged hither and yon by the peregrinations of parental careers, leaving behind friends and loved ones, making new friends just to have it all happen again, illness and the absurd annoyances of adolescence: through it all this girl remains charming, swift, her own dear self, the same person she was the day she was born, while also a new and amazing person every single day I know her.

Right now she is loose somewhere in the city with her friends – a grown-up, a sweetheart, a truly fascinating young woman. I am honored to be her occasional companion as she wanders the world, and I fervently wish her the best on this day and all the rest. Happy birthday, kid! Thank you for being my friend.

 

7.23.07 wishes

Happy birthday, Gabriel! Friend, confidante, fellow traveler – thank you for years and years of fabulous fun and adventure!

From the halls of the Sunnyside co-op to the streets of Rome, Colorado to New York City and all stops in between – you’ve driven me across mountains and through the streets of cities, remained true no matter what the crisis, offered entertainment, collaboration, sanctuary and laughter. I appreciate and adore you and hope that we will always be friends. Best wishes today and always!

 

7.22.07 opportunity

Just before I left Cambridge I ran into David at the grocery store and we traded tales of woe – he has legitimate and pressing work issues, and his wife and daughter are moving to the states a few months before he can join them.

What do I have to worry about? My summer travel plans. And, as I pointed out brightly, Nobody has any sympathy for my problems!

Nor should they. I never complain about much of anything because, comparatively speaking, I have no legitimate problems whatsoever.

Yeah, there is the whole life-threatening chronic illness thing, but I don’t care about that.

My biological family is crazy, but that doesn’t worry me.

I live far away from most of the people I love, but again, while a source of pain, that is a choice that I am happy to live with right now.

This does not mean I am completely tranquil. I have as many problems as I’ve ever had – in fact, if such things could be measured objectively, I probably have more than at any point in the past. In my experience problems tend to scale the same way money does; whenever I have extra cash, I always have an extra crisis that takes exactly the same amount as the reserve.

For as long as I can remember my problems were always about basic survival. Lately that has changed; I have every material resource I need to accomplish what I like. But that means I have to choose between different opportunities, an experience that feels the same as any other problem I’ve ever had.

Last night I skipped from a party to dinner to the clubs, racing from one friend to the next, missing calls and connections, meeting new people and raising my eyebrows over old gossip.

I laughed so hard I lost my voice, fell in love with the city all over again, wondered why I ever left. Then I was offered yet another SF apartment for the duration of the summer. Whatever should I do with myself? How to choose? Why the heck does this seem like such a conundrum?

As Mark Mitchell sensibly pointed out when he called to wake me up this morning (he was lonely), my life is outrageously amazing. Though he also says that we’re both just carnies at heart, which is fundamentally true.

Of course, I’ll make the responsible and sensible choice. I always do, even if it looks like something else from a distance. I even recognize that this particular situation is faintly ridiculous – I’m confused because I have to choose between competing and delightful scenarios.

This isn’t life and death, it isn’t even particularly interesting; just another bougie moment in the neverending drama of my expat existence.

 

7.22.07 friends

Walking toward Bauhaus I heard someone say I swear I’m not stalking you and turned to see Scott – oh, glorious coincidence! Though given that we all spend an inordinate amount of time at Bauhaus, hardly surprising. We stood around in the rain talking and laughing and then he departed and I spent most of the rest of the day with Mark:

 

7.21.07 potter

Despite the fact that both of my children are obsessed with the books, I have never allowed them to participate in the madness of the midnight release parties for Harry Potter novels. My daughter may have broken ranks since she is an adult and staying elsewhere in the city (with friends? Grandparents? I have no clue – though she did text yesterday to tell me that the PDX train station restroom is so rad and by the way I really need you to top up my phone).

Last night was no different – the younger was tucked in bed listening to one of his beloved P. G. Wodehouse books on tape and I was watching Pete on television. Yeah, that is exactly what Pete is like in person – and it is true, he really does have a thing for washing dishes. He practically sterilizes my kitchen when he visits!

I suppose we’ll meander over to U Village and pick up a copy of the tome at some point this morning, but then again I may put it off and let him do that with grandparents when he sets off on one of his adventures.

Will my offspring remember this as a tragedy of their childhood? Oh, probably. It’ll rank right up there with My mother made me go to the south of France when I wanted to stay home and read manga! and similar epic complaints.

We missed the premiere of the most recent movie due to a conflict with a Church of England primary school production of Joseph and his Amazing Whatsit and then the flurry of packing to leave for the summer but finally trekked along to see it once we arrived in Portland.

The children wore school uniforms, including ties matching their favorite house, and my son sported a Prefect badge. What did they think of the film? They liked it, though we’re in agreement that the Cuaron is the only one in the series that was actually good.

What did I think? That the HP books are glorified film scripts to begin with and attempting to condense epic plot points into a 2.5 hour format is just plain silly. Other than that I have no opinion.

Though I was deeply shocked by a preview for a film of The Dark is Rising. Why, oh why must all the best kids books be slaughtered by cinematic adaptation?

Casting Lovejoy aka Swearengen as Merriman does not redeem the project.

 

7.20.07 reminder

Don’t forget, Dishwasher Pete is on Letterman tonight…. his email about the encounter (including green room adventures) was quite hilarious, so I’m sure the show will be super fun!

Mysteriously, I am currently living in an apartment with cable, so I guess I might even see the show. Though the odds that I’ll get dragged out on an adventure later is rather high.

 

7.19.07 forbidden

Of all the forbidden pleasures I have indulged over the last twelve months, this one is in fact the most taboo:

 

 

7.18.07 encounter

Yesterday I was hanging out at Reading Frenzy under the No Talking on Cell Phones sign when my mobile rang. I glanced at the screen and said Oh no! It’s Gordon! Can I answer?

Chloe replied Of course, Gordon is special!

Even so, I stepped outside to take the call. The rule makes sense in that store – it is way too small to bother other customers with chit chat.

Gordon was calling to check on my travel plans and this is the confusing update: as of Wednesday morning I still dunno when I’ll be in SF, because I got caught up in renting an apartment.

I hung out chatting and watching Chloe open boxes of merchandise and of course departed with a bunch of interesting new stuff, including two issues of Craphound and stacks of zines and cards I really do not have room in the suitcase for! Some pics:

Dishwasher Pete’s Mac and Cheese collection:

 

Chloe gave me a hilarious present – this journal has Dramatic Encounter! printed on the bottom of every page:

Plus, China’s book arrived!

 

7.17.07 venture

For those following the turmoil, as of 4:45 pm I had no base camp for the summer, after several months of effort yielded no clear results. Base camps are necessary if one wishes to venture forth. By 4:58, I had sorted out the whole thing. Awesome!

Unfortunately, I left my hair drying appliance somewhere out west. I really seriously dislike going to the sort of stores that sell these things.

 

7.17.07 onslaught

On Sunday when I walked in the Bus Stop Susannah was acting as bouncer so she was the first to spot me. She pointed and half the bar turned to look, then I was swept away by shouts and embraces.

Ade refused to let go but Rodney plucked me away then Ade sprinted toward Jeff and took a running jump. Jeffrey grabbed him and held him high and they twirled around the room – like an ice skating routine. It was simply amazing.

Rodney said You swore you wouldn’t come back for a whole year!

I replied I lasted seven whole months!

Hanging around the bar chatting and catching up it was like no time had passed at all. Then it was time for karaoke to start and I settled near the stage, surrounded by close friends.

KTS and Alison joined us, Xin showed up, and we blocked the view of the crowd with an excited embrace on the karaoke stage. The marvelous host kept stopping the show with glowing remarks about my presence that made me put my head between my legs in embarrassment, or kissing me on the way to a break.

The performances were as always amazing – not the usual drive-by onslaught because so many of the denizens of the bar are classically trained. Jeffrey and Ade destroyed us with a duet of Suddenly Seymour.

Jetlag inevitably forced me to leave. When I said goodbye to Ade he yelled NO!

I insisted so he grabbed the mike and instructed the audience to Say goodbye, asshole!

The whole bar chorused Goodbye, asshole!

I walked out into the night laughing uncontrollably.

 

7.16.07 porn

Tonight I was at the Vita waiting for dinner to be served when my phone rang. I knew the caller would have something interesting to share so I left my companions at the table and stepped outside to talk. Standing in the brilliant evening sun of Alberta Street I laughed and laughed as a friend shouted down the line OMG I just had hot dirty sex with a porn star!! – and then went on to describe the encounter in excruciating detail.

I was doubled over from the hilarity of the conversation but eventually excused myself to go back inside and eat, well, salad. With tahini dressing. Yum!

At some point I whispered a description of the phone conversation to the adult in the group and asked So, guess who it was?

Knowing my circle of friends, he furrowed his brow and could not name a culprit. Just then the bill arrived and I asked the total. Byron looked at the slip summarizing the damage of four people eating and drinking at an upscale (by old neighborhood standards) vegan restaurant.

He sighed and said Twenty quid. I smacked myself in the forehead and exclaimed Shoot me now!

 

7.15.07 parking

Last night I was rattling around the back of a dirty old band van as Jeffrey cavalierly dashed all over First and Capitol hills singing Brandy at full volume.

Oh, and I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Living dangerously in my old age!

It is very odd to be back in car culture after such a long absence. Jeff actually seems to like the tedious process of finding a parking spot in his neighborhood every night – I proposed it must replace his rural huntin’ and fishin’ habits or something, because he is far more gleeful about the whole thing than can be otherwise be explained.

When we finally found a spot we were laughing helplessly and he exclaimed Oh you know you like it – you just had a parkingasm!

The jetlag had kicked in big time before I finished eating dinner so my memories of the hipster bar (something new next to Top Pot?) are dim at best, aside from meeting Jeff’s Hot New Girlfriend. My goodness! They are so incredibly cute!

He won our Have a Crush on Someone Good for You for Once bet, absolutely.

Then Soul Night at the Lo Fi, anyone? Fun! Though walking down the hill I realized I was just too tired and had to bid my friends farewell at the door.

Earlier in the evening Mark Mitchell tried to figure out what my overall schedule is this summer and I cheerfully replied I have no idea! There is a funeral one weekend, and beyond that, I have made no plans!

There was a flummoxed pause and he answered You foolish, foolish girl!

True. Though half my friends are world-class flakes, those who might be described otherwise have complicated schedules, and a few people have gone mysteriously silent. My public administrator brain can’t really differentiate between the possible reasons for lack of planning on the part of other humans so I have to assume that if people wanna see me, they’ll make an effort to do so.

If not, oh well…. it isn’t like I lack for invitations!

Speaking of which, my day is filling fast with breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates, not to mention the sheer genius of Ade in the evening. And I can see the Puget Sound from where I’m sitting. This city drives me crazy and fills my heart with joy.

 

7.14.07 imposter

My pal Dishwasher Pete will be on Letterman next Friday…. and this time he actually plans to show up instead of sending an imposte!

In other news, I realized that my stateside sim card went walkabout. Goodbye, NYC phone number! Real-life friends: I’ll have a new number later this weekend. The UK number works in the meanwhile, or you can catch me on the back channels…. presumably you know those numbers!

 

7.13.07 goodbye

Last night I crashed a librarian leaving do (as the British call these things) for Sarah as that was the only way I would get to say goodbye in person before she moves back to the states.

After the real grown-ups left Byron turned up and we three had a rollicking conversation about various sketchy episodes in our pasts. This included a story about an underage Arasay buying tequila for a Gordon birthday party, under the influence of someone known to piss in the crisper drawer.

Since Byron knew me back in the day he helpfully told the story that summarizes why I do not drink rum. Though he didn’t get as far as the reason I won’t touch whiskey!

Sarah and I are both the practical sort so much of the chit chat was about the quandaries of splitting bills in community houses. Remember when phone calls actually cost a lot of money? And there was always one housemate who would deny all knowledge of calls placed to their hometown?

Oh, how hilarious at a distance of a couple of decades!

I didn’t take many notes but there was more racy chit chat than I would normally expect when hanging out with Sarah. She made a few points I won’t repeat then asked How do you feel about middle aged meat?

When she saw me whip out my notebook she commented I can’t believe I just said that!

Gordon introduced me to Sarah before I relocated here and she was endlessly helpful. Her knowledge of the technical parts of the process of emigrating, and her practical understanding of life in Cambridge, made a huge difference as I moved.

After I arrived she proved to be a hilarious and deeply entertaining companion. Over the course of these three years we haven’t spent nearly enough time together, but when we have it has been entirely rewarding. I mean really – I’ve never had ladychat with anyone else in my whole life!

Beyond that, she has contributed to my professional life in a startling and deeply appreciated manner by advocating for Lessons in Taxidermy as a respected librarian in two different countries.

It has been an honor to know her and to watch her family grow. We’ll be friends after she goes back to California – I’ll probably even see her this summer. But Cambridge will not be the same.

Goodbye, Sarah. I’ll miss you!

 

7.12.07 lucky

Guess who will coincidentally be in Seattle this weekend? Hmm?? KTS!!! I may pass out from lack of oxygen cause I’ll be laughing so much.

 

7.09.07 free

Jeffrey joined the opera; how awesome is that? If you are in the NW you can see him sing chorus in the Flying Dutchman this August.

 

7.4.07 trawl

One of the most brilliant parts of socialized medicine is the fact that they cut off your supply of medication if you skip the routine check-ups. Otherwise, I would never go!

For those of you who have never lived here, the NHS is kind of like a vast HMO, except dirtier. In theory you have a GP in your neighborhood (and they make house calls, apparently, not that I would ever think to call for one even if I needed it) and that person tends to all standard medical complaints, and many you would expect to see a specialist for.

If you have something the GP can’t treat, you can sometimes get a referral – but that generally entails long waiting periods. If the wait is too long and you have private insurance you can ask to skip the queue and go to outside hospitals.

These are slightly cleaner though entirely carpeted, and you can order alcohol in your room. Other than that, the quality of care is the same, as the facilities are staffed by NHS doctors.

Medical care is by no means efficient, but it is extremely brisk. The three (yes, only three) times I’ve begrudgingly gone to see my GP the visits have followed the same pattern – walk in, sit down, state problem, get referral or prescription, leave. It never takes more than 5 minutes to accomplish this, because the doctors simply do not ask any questions.

Particularly since I arrive with an agenda and know more than they do about my disease, we have less interaction than I do with the clerk at the grocery store.

This morning I was forced by necessity to go to an appointment – I need enough medication to last while away all summer, and I’m about two years overdue on the blood tests they take the persnickety perspective should be performed every three months.

I’ve been taking the same dose of the stuff since 1983, it hardly seems necessary to undergo the scrutiny!

I went in with three requests. When I rattled off the list the doctor was bemused, then picked up a pen. Wait a minute, repeat that again?

She asked if I’ve had some standard genetic tests and I replied No, only the rare ones!

Then I was, horror of horrors, subjected to a hands-on exam. Thump!

But even with that and two conspicuous hand-washing rituals, the whole appointment was over within approximately twelve minutes.

Since I’m one of the only people in the whole country who takes a certain drug there was a risk the chemist wouldn’t have enough in stock, but lucky me, they did!

In the states the appointments, tests and procedures ordered on my behalf today would cost something like seven thousand dollars. Here? Absolutely free.

I’m not even allowed to pay for meds! Apparently socialized medicine brings out my sincere love of the exclamation point!

 

7.08.07 trepanation

Today I was telling Byron about an exasperating social situation and he rolled his eyes and asked What does Gordon think?

I answered Gordon is pro-chaos!

He replied Great. I agree with Gordon. In fact, how about you assume I agree with whatever he says, and skip telling me!

I furrowed my brow. Do you really think it advisable to appoint a San Francisco cheesemonger my sole confidante?

His answer was instant: Yes!

That might be interesting, though I really doubt that Gordon wishes to hear all of the random stuff burbling around in my brain. Though recently he said If you ever get rich and famous enough to hire an entourage, I call dibs on the position of your personal social interpreter.

I replied I definitely need an interpreter. But how would you signal things? Winks, sign language, cue cards?

He replied Microphone implants in our skulls.

My answer: Trepanation! One of my favorite things EVER!

 

7.07.07 fete

I forgot to mention the fete to Jean, assuming he would not want to attend, but then sent a brief message just as the festivities started. Imagine my surprise when he showed up minutes later!

We made a circuit of the various booths, including Toss a Teddy and Throw a Sponge at My Face. Then we abandoned my child with the industrious and appropriate parent who actually wanted to run his stall (Throw Tennis Balls at Plastic Cups) and dragged chairs into the shade.

It has been quite wet here lately so the legs of the chairs sank slowly into the muddy field as we caught up; we haven’t spoken since mid-March so there was a lot to cover!

Jean is endlessly entertaining, and his conversation is littered with words like plangent. This is fun for me, though sometimes annoying to other people, who make him stop and explain. I can provide the dictionary definition, but he alway reports the Latin (or other language) root of whichever piece of vocabulary troubles the audience, then we laugh and laugh.

For the most part I just listened to the concerns and quandaries of this ever so debonair and cosmopolitan young man, but eventually he paused and said And what of you?

I would have shrugged, but remembered that I am officially Sharing and Relating these days, so I gave him a four sentence summary of my recent and potential adventures. He blinked and remarked That is complicated – my life is by comparison quite conventional!

Not exactly true, but interesting perspective nonetheless. Eventually we were joined by a couple of unexpected people (they are fans of fetes, not connected to the school), then my elder child showed up, and the younger one wandered over holding a toy car made out of raw onion.

Someone walked up with a charity bucket and explained that their friend was attempting to break a world record and raise money by Crawling for Cancer. We looked the way she was pointing, and sure enough, a middle-aged academic was slowly and painfully crawling past.

Jean said Tell your friend that is simply appalling! We do not approve! Though since we both have cancer, we’ll contribute.

The person holding the bucket was quite unnerved but then gleeful when we emptied our pockets.

Near the time to leave one of the people who lives on Drunk Bench decided to join our group, first chatting with my son about his Onion Car.

My kid does not talk to, um, almost anyone, let alone strangers swigging from bottles of rum, so that one didn’t go very well.

The fellow started to dance around, growling at children and shouting Rascals! Rascals! I’m known all over England! I’m the ruler of England!

The afternoon was in fact a very good representation of life in Cambridge.

 

7.06.07 killers

The other day I was reading a detective novel and knew who the villain would be within the first twenty pages. Not because it was obvious – the book was cleverly constructed. I predicted the resolution of the plot because someone I know once attempted to execute the same crime.

Presumably he borrowed the idea from this book.

He was not an especially clever criminal, and that is why he is serving a life sentence for murdering his wife.

I grew up in a place – and family – where murder was common. This fact is not explored in Lessons in Taxidermy because my editor felt that the bloodshed was excessive: two whole chapters of mayhem were chopped off the manuscript as it went to press.

My agent doesn’t know or she would probably try to convince me to write a murder memoir.

This would not be advisable, since certain people of my acquaintance would take offense and they are not the sort to limit their response to a frosty letter.

My life is so, well, improbable.

 

7.05.07 trivial

In other completely trivial news, I figured I probably went sliding down the riverbank because I’ve walked the tread right off my shoes. And then straight through the rubber base – I’ve been wandering around mostly on insoles for awhile now and ignoring the fact that my feet get wet.

So I cautiously ventured to the shoe store (yes, there is in fact only one… at least in terms of anything I can wear) to grimly poke through the available options.

Wonder of wonders, there was a sale on! This means I saved a whole twenty quid when purchasing The Most Ugly Shoes in the Universe. Hurray!

How much did said ugly shoes cost? Eighty pounds, which seemed a bargain. Until I let my internal calculator point out that is one hundred and sixty dollars. I don’t even spend that much on airfare!

The only consolation is that I maintained my stubborn resistance to sandals. Never! I wrote to tell Mark about my excellent purchase and he replied I’m going to have to wear really fancy shoes today, to restore the pretty that your shoes are sucking out of the universe!

 

7.04.07 banner

Today I was cycling down Trinity Street when I heard some music and noticed a crowd had gathered to stare up at a crenelated, gargoyle-bedecked roof at St. John’s.

I stopped to listen as an invisible orchestra of horns played out The Star Spangled Banner. A dozen of us, strangers to each other but obviously North American, started to sing along.

Some English children next to me exclaimed Why are they singing, Mummy?? and I felt an absurd longing to be back in some random stateside street or field with incendiary devices flaming all around.

When the music stopped a tourist fell into conversation with me and a man I’d never met, who revealed himself to be a Midwestern chemistry professor here on sabbatical. Of course – who else would stand around conversing at great length about abattoirs, NASA, and the nature of scientific inquiry with anonymous strangers?

I have more to say on the subject of Independence Day but I just cleverly managed to slide down a muddy riverbank on my knees, narrowly avoiding ending up in the river. At least nobody was there to witness this folly!

 

7.01.07 predicated

I haven’t been following the news closely since, hmm, reviewing mental files – oh yes! Waco, Ruby Ridge, and the Oklahoma City bombing.

This means that when I decided not to fly to Berlin last night I didn’t know about the second London car bomb (and yeah, I spent a large part of the day in Piccadilly ignoring swarms of police).

Or that there had been a terror attack on Glasgow airport.

Let alone that Scotland’s Justice Secretary Kenny MacAskill described those behind the airport attack as “not born and bred here” (quoted in both NYT and BBC).

Hmm. Seems like a premature comment, unless all the participants have been apprehended. Commitment to particular ideologies would appear to be the source of the attacks, and that isn’t something that is predicated on passports.