Bee Lavender

Last night I was on the top level of a double decker bus winding through Angel when I spied the flower shop owned by my old friend David (yeah, if you know London, the florist under the statue) and realized we haven’t talked in awhile.

I texted to ask what he is up to and the reply was Darling, I’m in Madrid – would love to see you when I get back!

My answer read in part I’m jetting off to Berlin and then to the states for the summer…

Then I was startled, once again, to find myself in this country writing sentences like that. The oddity was of course underscored by the fact that David and I are from the same faraway heinous hometown.

Who knew we’d even make it out alive, let alone be friends twenty-four years after first meeting? Life is strange. Anyway, more about the wedding reception later – it was of course fantastically fun! Lots of friends old and new, including a chance to gossip with Iain:

 

6.28.2007 queasy

What I sound like on the radio:

Interviewer, in somber tone – So Bee, you suffered domestic violence?

Me, laughing – No, I practiced it!

Interviewer, shocked – What, you mean you dished it out??

Me, still laughing – No, I defended myself. I’ve never been a victim of anything!

That is just the bit that I can remember. Of course there was a whole lot of terribly inappropriate disease chit-chat, I was asked to describe the accident (something I can’t even talk to my closest friends about), and I had to suffer through countless compliments. Oh no!

Luckily my brain deletes all that stuff immediately.

I expounded on the link between poverty and violence at great length, but at least she didn’t ask why I am opposed to therapy. The Australians of my acquaintance are good like that.

One hour later, I still feel mildly queasy. I don’t even listen to the radio!

Ten years and three books into this whole thing, it is obvious that regardless of the topic – parenting, activism, reminiscing about having portions of my body hacked off – I just say whatever crazy thing crosses my mind. This may in fact be why I’m asked to appear on the airwaves so often, but still, not my favorite part of the job!

 

6.25.2007 chattering

Australian friends: I’ll be chattering away live on ABC radio Thursday evening.

 

6.22.2007 quagmire

To be extremely simplistic, I left the states because I wanted to live in a place where everyone has access to basic health care.

I can report that the standard and quality of care in the UK is <i>substantially superior</i> to anything I had in the states, and I had access to the best insurance and hospitals in the country.

And you know what? The private insurance industry here is alive and well. It even has that nasty little pre-existing conditions clause going on, along with massive pre-approval paperwork and all the tedious stuff you experience back home.

But if you break a leg, or have an asthma attack in the middle of the night, you get a free ambulance ride to a hospital where they efficiently fix you without charge. In this town, they don’t even ask if you have the right to the services.

It isn’t necessary to believe that a single-payer system would work in the states (I don’t, at least not right now) to acknowledge that the health care system is fucked. Industry reform is on the horizon, and that is why there is so much frantic debate and propagandizing.

The question is, will the reform benefit you or the insurance industry? Someone is going to get something out of the quagmire.

 

6.18.2007 independent

Punk Planet has announced that the magazine will cease publication after the current issue.

The fiscal crisis in the independent publishing world is wide-spread, systemic, and mostly without a solution. Unless publications have patrons (meaning a rich individual sponsor or a lucrative and stable nonprofit) they will almost certainly succumb to the fallout of recent bankruptcies.

Every last one of us. Including all of your most beloved zines and some of your favorite stores.

The facts are simple: newsstand sales do not translate to enough money to print and distribute (and if your distro goes under without paying out, that fact is irrelevant anyway). Subscriptions are better, but not enough. Advertising, as always, is the main source of income, and that is an unreliable revenue stream. Particularly if you are defiantly independent and serve a niche audience.

This has always been true. It’s worse now than it was ten years ago, it will be better in the future and then bad again. The whole thing is cyclical and right now we’re in a dark part of the cycle.

If your favorite publication is still in print, this is what you can do to help:

Buy merchandise and books direct from the source, instead of via external web sites.

Subscribe, and subscribe again.

If you have something to advertise and money to pay for ads, run one.

I don’t play the Who is Next game but can assure you that Punk Planet is not the last. For me this is of course deeply personal, since the people making these announcements are my friends.

AEM was practically a member of my family when we lived in Seattle. Dan Sinker is a truly awesome individual, and the person who took a risk and offered to publish Lessons in Taxidermy after watching one of my performances. Nobody else in the states wanted the book – unless I changed the title and ending.

Punk Planet as an institution had a good run; thirteen years is a long time in publishing terms. But it is never fun to see a project end when the people involved want it to continue, and the readers are still there.

 

6.17.2007 appearance

The current cover of NME features a naked photo of Beth Ditto. Last week a celebrity gossip magazine also put the same image on the cover, juxtaposed with a series of way-too-thin women with fake breasts in bikinis, and an exclusive titled Mel B’s Amazing Diet Secret.

The actual article about Beth is quite positive, and essentially has a you go girl attitude. This, however, is one page in a big glossy parade of articles that say exactly the opposite, including extremely harsh criticism of assorted Z list celebrities I’ve never even heard of, with photographs.

Beth is someone I know in real life so my reaction to this is stronger than it would be normally – toxic body image messages from mainstream culture normally have no traction in my brain. I simply do not care what anyone thinks of how I look – good, bad, or indifferent.

Beauty is a social construct, and the ideal is different depending on where and when you live. I grew up poor and mutilated in a western consumer culture at the end of a censorious century. This taught me many important lessons, not least of which is the fact that the only opinion that matters about my appearance is my own. I’m not healthy or beautiful by any objective standard, but my body is amazing, and I love it, no matter what.

The reaction to the NME cover is irritating in part because Beth is smoking hot. People want to know her, in all meanings of the word. It is not necessary to conform to mainstream standards to be sexy and desirable. In fact, the opposite is often true.

Thinking otherwise is just a sham, and people should get over it.

 

 

6.15.2007 shore

Nautical thought of the day: it is difficult to board a vessel when the shore has disappeared. That kind of sums up my life in general, but today the specific challenge is the fact that the river has flooded.

 

6.14.2007 thrilled

The Bumps are a completely typical Cambridge experience that sort of sums up life here.

It goes like this: Ride bike two or three miles into countryside. Chain bike to tree next to pub. Purchase pint of beer. Sit on the grass next to river. Wait. Talk to charming companion (on this occasion, blonde ten year old boy). Wait. Fidget. Buy crisps for child. Watch losing teams row past in desultory fashion. Observe elderly rowing enthusiasts talking about victories of previous century. Listen to teenage rowing enthusiasts chatting on mobile phones about victories earlier in the day. Notice that there is a youngster running a punt ferry service so racing fans on the other side of the river can get drunk too. Try to prevent Don’t Pay the Ferryman from playing in brain. Think about how this event is the culmination of all the activity I observe on the river, every day, all year long. Ponder why anyone would bother while also admiring the sheer physicality of it all. Remember which of your friends was a rower in youth, and snicker. Jump with fright when the PA system starts to shriek that the race has started. Stand and watch with crowd as several boats stream past the pub garden.

Feel incredibly thrilled at the spectacle – which lasts approximately two minutes:

 

6.11.2007 meal

I am often asked why I left the states, and the answer is complicated – mostly political concepts about access to health care, but also highly personal. And I generally just don’t wanna talk about it. I often say Because I could.

Here is one reason though. This is what a kids meal looks like in France:

Of course my son recoiled in horror over the snails, but that isn’t the point!

 

6.9.2007 goodbye

Why do I always end up talking to clinical psychologists at 3:00 AM? Or a better question, why did I end up singing American Pie at top volume with aforesaid psychologist without missing one single word? The answer is simple: there isn’t anything better to do in Cambridge!

I tried to lurk about in the garden and contemplate the question posed by the song (can music save your mortal soul?). My answer: No, because I don’t believe in the concept of a soul. Though a song could save your life, if you let it.

Then I was dragged back into the party, where I exercised my vestigial conversational skills for several hours. I am generally the only civilian at academic parties and last night was no different.

Rachel coaxed me to talk about my career but I resisted for the most part. It amuses me to inform snobbish people who care about status that I am just hanging out.

The psychologist, as they tend to, managed to extract a more complete answer, including a synopsis of Lessons in Taxidermy, and my standard lecture about how horrific tragedy is just another learning opportunity. Or something along those lines – we were drinking champagne, after all!

Then I met this fascinating fellow who studies blood. The title of his book/thesis (these things are never clear to me) is Veins of Devotion, which I think hilarious. The wealth of Williams were present and I chatted with one extensively about how this town is so strange and perverse and riddled with sexual scandals.

Jean and Peter showed up at midnight and at least one of them has figured out that I know some gossip, though I just put my finger on my chin and stared at the ceiling rather than sharing:

The party was a final hurrah for Rachel, who goes back to Canada to be a professor and grownup and whatnot. I know that our friendship will continue, but life here will be substantially different without her particular sort of genius.

Goodbye, Rachel! I’ll miss you!

 

6.9.2007 backwards

Last night Iain</a> texted to tell me he had lunch with my New Best Friend  (TM) and to catch up on gossip. At some point I mentioned how bewildered I am now that I have assorted new social skills.

I said I’m old! No longer cute and sexy! 

He replied Bah. Course yr still hot! 

I protested that I always do stuff late and backwards! 

His very sensible answer was I guess it is a nicer time to learn tho. As at least all the other human nature psychology stuff is in place. And you have more money for hot lady clothes.

True. When my grandma was thirty-six she gave birth to her seventh child, and became a grandmother for the first time. Her life as a working class woman raising a crazy crew of children on a farm in the rural NW is something I simply cannot imagine, even though I grew up in the same place with the same people.

What did she think about at my age – what did she love?

There is no record, no journals or letters; she even burned many of the photographs of the children. I have many scraps of evidence about life on the farm and it is impossible to put together an accurate narrative. I know she considered her life easier than what her mother went through, as a divorced woman raising six children without money or education.

My own mother was in turn thirty-six when I presented her with a grandchild. I know very well what her life was like that year, what worried her or made her laugh. She was still paying off the bills from the disease that nearly killed me. It was all was painful beyond measure, with no relief on the horizon.

I am an only child and I created more grief for her than can possibly be calculated. But she persevered. They all persevered.

But I do not have the values that kept most of the women in my family in one place an entire lifetime. I’m not the sort to settle, and I don’t believe in fate.

If anything I take after my fiendish great-grandmother, a woman so determined to reinvent herself we do not even know our true surname. Where was she at this age? Nobody knows.

 

6.8.2007 generosity

One day last week I was at the Maypole with Rachel and she said I’ve been thinking about generosity. Write something about that for me!

I inquired about what aspect of the concept she has been reflecting on, and the short answer was: hosts and guests.

That one is easy. I believe that it is critically important to be an excellent host, and also an extremely well-behaved guest. My standards when I am the host are high in many respects; I abdicate all work time in favor of showing people around town. When I have money I pay for everything. I throw parties or arrange adventures or just hang around, according to the desire of the visitor.

Smaller details sometimes get overlooked – I am not a dependable source of freshly laundered towels, for instance. But I open my home (or rather boat) to a nonstop stream of friends.

If I’m the guest, I do not have requests beyond minimal physical requirements. This means nothing more than water, tea, and a warm place to sleep – and I am capable of sorting all three without assistance. I may have a few errands to run (can’t buy my lipstick here in Cambridge, and I have to get it somewhere!) but the rest of the itinerary is completely open. Or closed – I am perfectly happy to amuse myself.

Essentially, I presume that people offer what they can give. I take what I can accept.

I am in fact notoriously compulsive about all sorts of things, but I travel without expectations. Sometimes I stay in hotel rooms that cost more per night than I paid in rent in a whole year as a student. Other times I find myself sleeping rough in a filthy punk house.

Sometimes when I get off an airplane I am met by a driver holding a sign with my name on it. Other times I find myself stranded without anyone to call. The experiences are equal, because the facts do not matter.

I’ve had just as much fun on tour with fifteen people and one towel as I’ve had lounging around a penthouse apartment in Rome.

I have friends of all sorts, all over the world, and enjoy their company. I love to perform, get a huge thrill out of throwing and attending parties and events – I like people. Yet one of my happiest memories of last year was sitting alone in a laundromat in San Francisco eating cinnamon jelly beans.

The loneliest moment I had all year long occurred in my favorite bar, surrounded by friends who adore me.

That is how life works sometimes.

It is of course impossible to skip all of the negative stuff: I’ve been disappointed, frustrated, angry, and lost – routinely. I’m a confused, disheveled, working class kid who has wandered far from home. I often make stupid mistakes. I am fully aware of my own limitations, and that can be excruciating. Half the time I even know in advance which experiences will be disturbing.

The trick is that understanding something might be difficult has never proved a deterrent. In fact, if I notice that I am scared, I fling myself at whatever has frightened me.

Right now I am scheduling trips that will keep me on the road for a few months. I don’t know if I will have fun, or if anything will go according to plan, but it will be interesting and useful. No matter what happens.

Generosity is not about material gifts or gain; it is an attitude that can be exercised everywhere, all the time.

 

6.7.2007 genius

The absolute most genius part of the entire trip:

 

 

6.6.2007 impetuous

Yesterday I was happily humming along, sweeping leaves off the top of my boat, and pulled the gangplank off to clean it. In a flash I was struck suddenly at the peculiarity that I am in charge of a gangplank, let alone a boat, and that of course dilated into a larger sense of astonishment that I live in Cambridge, England.

This town, more than most, is a transient sort of place. The student population – tens of thousands of people – swells and dissipates every few weeks, notable to me only insofar as it is sometimes hard to buy bread.

Old friends show up to marvel at the eccentricity of my life here, then they go home again. I make new friends, and they finish their degree or sabbatical and leave.

The people in my family scatter across the world and come back together in unpredictable ways. I spend perhaps a third of each year traveling. Most of my time when I’m in town is spent on a narrowboat – and though it is moored securely, I can pull up stakes and move any time.

Even the most serious commitments I have agreed to are contingent on the fact that I can, and will, make impetuous decisions and alter everything without warning. As far as I can recollect the choice to abandon my first career was made on a whim one afternoon.

Moving away from Portland, leaving Seattle, emigrating here – all completely random choices involving nothing much more involved than just saying yes.

 

6.4.2007 boring

Earlier this evening I said I didn’t expect to live long enough to have all of these new problems and concerns!

Byron replied I didn’t expect you to live this long either.

Then we watched a DVD of Pet Shop Boys videos Satnam pressed on us last night. I’ve never taken much notice of the band, but have officially Changed My Mind (this is what happens when you get old, I suppose). In fact, Being Boring made me cry.

I got over it.

 

6.4.2007 swimming

Since I’ve only been in water something like three times in twenty years it would be a mistake to say that I have a typical swimming costume, but on the rare event I go in this is what I wear: all of my clothes. I stay covered neck to ankle, without exception.

I could claim that this is on doctors orders, but technically my physicians have issued strict rules including no sunlight whatsoever not to mention no chlorine, no exertion, no fun….

Ok, they never said the bit about fun, but really, I’m not supposed to go anywhere or do anything.

This time around I packed in a rush and couldn’t find a long-sleeved shirt at all, so my swimsuit consisted of cut-off tights, knee-length shorts, and a ratty shirt from one of my book tours turned inside out (I never wear my own merchandise). This perilous assemblage was augmented by several layers of sunblock and an umbrella.

In the interest of full disclosure, I did in fact swim in the pool – it was awfully hard to resist given that it was at the bottom of the cliff face, and there was the adorable child clamoring for attention, and my allergies can’t be that severe, right? Wrong. But I was careful! And yeah, I worked in public health long enough to know that is a stupid excuse.

But anyway, on the way up to the room I spied myself in a mirror, my hair all wet and wild, looking nothing at all like myself because the clothes are so far off what I’ve been wearing the last few years. For a moment I entertained the thought of ditching the dresses and digging out my Carrharts.

Though I gave Ariel my black hoodie (with the explicit reminder that it had major fertility vibes attached) and can’t imagine that I’ll ever be able to replace it, so never mind!

Lucky me, the day I made it to the beach was stormy and dark, so I was able to frolic without endangering my so-called health.

Byron didn’t get wet:

You didn’t really think I’d post a full pic of my idiotic outfit, did you?

 

 

 

6.3.2007 decorative

Notes from the south of France, where it is raining! I find this quite excellent and ran around joyfully in the sea since the sun was hiding, but the other people huddled in the hotel lobby are not amused.

I was just doing something technical using a stupid PC (I never, ever touch Windows products if I can help it) and Byron offered to take over the task. I exclaimed Hey! What do you think I am?!

His response was instant: Decorative!

The other night in a very fancy restaurant I said Hey, did I ever tell you the story of how I learned to swim?

The assembled quorum of simultaneously informed me that the topic was Not Appropriate for Dinner.

What?! I think the story funny! Plus I didn’t die, obviously!

 

6.1.2007 grotto

What is the one type of thing I love more than any other, in my travels around the world?

Well, obviously, a grotto!

Not just The Grotto in Portland, but also that cafe in Zurich, Casa Bonita in Denver, a dozen other precious false places…. and now to join the ranks, a Vietnamese restaurant in France!

The stairs to get in:

<center><img src=”http://www.foment.net/images/grotto_restaurant.jpg”></center>

I failed to photograph a sufficient ration of the mirrors, false ceiling, fish tank walls, murals, and fake shrubbery everywhere….

In fact, I was so thrilled I went without lipstick most of the dinner:

 

The food was excellent – spring rolls and pho equivalent to the stuff I could get back home in Seattle living in the CD, which is rare to nonexistent in England.

The waiter found us adorable and lavished us with attention, treats, and presents, including a pregnant dolphin for my son:

Free sake for the adults served in naughty cups:

And for me, a fan:

Greetings from the south of France!

The view from here:

 

5.30.2007 riddles

Last year one of Ana’s rejected bad boys informed me that I think too much. Of course I was too backwards to understand what he meant by that comment, but I figured it out later!

His point was fundamentally true, but someone else very emphatically pointed out that truth was about to kick my ass. Why so much wisdom from licentious boys? It was all part of the research, of course! I wouldn’t have notes to refer to if I’d actually been participating in the debauchery.

I’ve come back to the same hotel, same beaches, same restaurants that I visited in January – when I was horribly sad and organizing my thoughts on a few critical subjects. In the intervening five months I’ve sorted all of the problems worrying me over the winter, only to find that solving riddles leads to more questions (this is a lesson I learn all the time).

Right now I am tremendously happy, though I can’t decide if everything has changed or if nothing has changed whatsoever. This, however, feels like equilibrium. My life is never predictable.

Except that I’m punctual to a fault.

 

5.28.2007 wet

Earlier this evening Gordon called to say I know that neither of us is the sort who talks about dreams, but I had a dream about you….

It was, in fact, quite disturbing – and all about authorial responsibility! Cool!

Later I was trudging about preparing for a holiday and the weather drove me into the place locals refer to fondly as the breakup bar.

Though, technically, it is a pub – and one I would never normally frequent. Some pics to also answer the Gordon challenge of photographic evidence of drinking:

Byron, drenched:

Me, completely soaked:

 

5.76.2007 black

Update on the black swan: still no babies! We walk or cycle out every single day and the meadow is quite lush now…. but hatching has not commenced! As my son points out, that must be one bored lady:

 

5.26.2007 good

Last night I was cycling around admiring the charming elements of this old town when my agent texted to express concern over all of the difficult stuff that has happened in my life lately.

It has been quite hard, and I am still woefully sad about my aunt, but the truth is that my life is sorted at the moment. I feel fundamentally, as I keep telling Rachel, awesome.

I parked my bike in the meadow next to the Mill and texted back an account of the various antics of the people nearest me.

Susan replied Ha! Very decent of them to provide you with so much material!

I answered that one of the characters wants me to write a mainstream novel that can be optioned, so his adventures show up on the big screen.

She said What makes him think you’re going to drag yourself away from holidaying to write another book?

I laughed and texted back Technically I wrote two this year, I just threw them away!

She shook a virtual fist in my direction. I responded Well, you don’t want me to publish BAD books, right?

I’m sure she sighed before texting No. But I’ve only got your word that they were bad.

What more could she possibly need?

This morning I’m listening to ABBA and eating chocolate for breakfast. Life is good.

5.25.2007 day

Happy birthday to Amy Joy!

It is hard to believe so many years have passed since the day we met at the All-Girl barbecue in North Portland. She was sitting on the floor cutting out paper dolls and we talked for perhaps ten minutes before I said Hey! I have an idea – I need child care – would you like a job? If so, can I say that you are my nanny?!

Before she started hanging out in my ramshackle house ten hours per week I had never, ever let anyone else watch the kids. Obviously, she is pretty awesome.

So many things have changed – who could have predicted that we would separately end up wandering so far from home?

My offspring have almost (but not quite) forgiven her for falling in love with Dishwasher Pete and running away into the sunset. It only took, what, six years?

 

5.23.2007 choices

Recently Byron said I want to go back to Chimayo.

Images from that trip flickered through my mind: the long drive from Denver to Santa Fe in a borrowed car that kept breaking down. Lunch in a roadside diner with locals glaring at us. Watching lightning storms crackle across the desert.

I remember sitting in a graveyard on a bluff talking to Marisa. Wandering around ghost towns. Another long ride to Taos, and the One Railroad Circus on stage performing – dazzling in every possible way.

Then the journey to Chimayo, talking about the Penitentes; we were both on a pilgrimage of sorts, looking for solace and relief from serious problems that could not be addressed in any way that either of us could figure out.

That day I offered my tribute, took a small amount of soil from the chapel, and wore it in a silver necklace for years, until I was in fact healed. Not by the trip or the chapel, not through the intervention of medical science, not from the presence of good friends, not through love or longing or anything at all except the simple determination to get better. To feel something. To live.

When I left Seattle the necklace joined the other objects in my scientific cabinet: just another trinket, another article of proof, jumbled in with old spectacles and my grandmother’s mismatched porcelain cups. Now I can’t even remember what it felt like around my neck. I can’t imagine wearing any jewelry at all.

I might go back to Chimayo some day, but I will not go for the sake of nostalgia or because I am looking for something that is gone forever. I may be able to see the circus again – and if so I will be endlessly thankful – but the experience will be unique and whole unto itself. It is likely that I will see Marisa soon, but I have a true understanding of mortality and never place faith in an uncertain future. I know that it is more important to enjoy her when we are together than count on anything else.

There are other people I care about and will never see again – because they hate me, or love me in an inconvenient way, or we’ve lost track of each other, or they died. This makes me sadder than I could ever describe, no matter the reason for the separation.

I fling myself into all manner of chaos, hang out with impetuous people, go on thrilling adventures, have the opportunity to move around the world whenever I like. I’ve also made promises and accepted responsibilities that leave me flayed and open to equal measures of grief and joy.

I’m not afraid of death, loss, risk. I simply appreciate whatever I can to the best of my limited ability, and remain fully aware that each moment will contain something new and true and unpredictable.

There was a time when I thought that I had a home somewhere in the world, and also a time when I thought that I didn’t belong anywhere. Now I know that I don’t need a home, and the objects in my cabinet truly are just artifacts.

Life is a series of choices, not just of actions but also of attitudes. I do not regret anything, even though I am currently experiencing intense pain and confusion. Like Byron noted in the course of the conversation: Good thing to know rather than be told. 

 

5.22.2007 five

Precisely five years ago I decided to leave Portland, abandoning a life that was truly delightful. I walked away from the best friends I’ve ever had, the Chorus, an extended and rewarding community, the only home I’ve ever known.

Four years ago I owned a beautiful house in Seattle with a view of the mountains and my entire life was sorted for the first time ever. But the only thing on my mind was the fact that a beloved relative was in a coma, near death. I understood for the first time that material security does not equate to safety.

Three years ago I impulsively decided to emigrate and I was in England looking for a place to live. Wandering next to the river on a brilliant sunny day I caught my first glimpse of a narrowboat and thought – I want that.

Two years ago I was in New York to do a reading at the National Arts Club and I stood on a corner across from Union Square, crying down a payphone because someone betrayed me in a way I never knew possible.

One year ago I had a meeting with my UK publisher and my agent took me to tea at the Savoy and I was amazed and confused to find myself there, in that moment, laughing.

Today I sat in the sun watching a lady swan sauntering about with three babies on her back, six more paddling madly to keep up, thinking about my aunt and a lost family and a series of secrets that will change my life once again.

I don’t really understand why this week in May is so significant – perhaps it is just the fact that it is spring. Summer is nearly here.

 

5.18.2007 sufficient

Recently one of my friends sent a message that read in part post traumatic stress….. can be convenient!

This is a perspective I find true, hilarious, and quite tiresome. I can cope with all sorts of huge stuff without wincing, complaining, or – depending on the specifics – even noticing that I was supposed to be upset. It is in fact much harder for me to process and deal with information that other people would point out is good news.

Today I was reading a novel about boxing and encountered the concept of being overtrained – pushing a body too far in too short a period of time, leading to listless disinterest instead of peak performance.

This spring has featured what feels like an endless cacophonous parade of information and experiences that have been mostly wonderful, several that have been overwhelming and confusing, and a few that have been intensely traumatic. As of this week my brain feels overtrained.

Because it is easier to think about small things I keep forgetting why I feel so crummy, and have to remind myself that losing close family members is in fact sufficient reason to be grief-stricken. It is not necessary to mix that up with anything else.

 

5.17.2007 novelty

I don’t watch television, listen to the radio, or read any section of the newspaper except that shiny magazine bit on Saturdays. In fact, the only current news I follow is celebrity gossip. This isn’t to say I am not paying attention – I read books, and hang out with people who are experts on all manner of subjects.

My aversion to news has more to do with an essential understanding of how stories are manipulated for public consumption; once you’ve been misquoted in the press it is hard to believe almost anything that you read.

Beyond that, my life has given me sufficient understanding of risk and danger. I don’t need to clutter my brain with any new or abstruse fears – I have enough real and immediate stuff to worry about!

 

5.16.2007 analysis

Byron and I haven’t been in the same country longer than twenty-four hours or so in something like, I don’t know, two months? He made the great mistake of arriving home as certain young people of our acquaintance were setting off on a trip to London (more on that later) and we both got dragged along.

It was fascinating and quite hilarious to catch up on the assorted adventures of the spring. I reported my final analysis of the flirting research, listing the people I actually noticed have had a crush on me.

Byron sighed and said All of those people may as well have tattoos that say ‘Bee I wanna do you!’

When I pulled out my notebook he groaned and said Hanging out with writers is dangerous!

I pulled the cap off my pen and replied Yes – we’re sinister creatures.

I will admit I’m obtuse about many aspects of life – but it seems my cluelessness only extends to my own self; I have very good intuition about situations I observe so long as I’m not a participant.

This would be one manifestation of what someone recently called the prosecutorial element of my character. Upon hearing that story, Byron was quite amazed and said Wow – someone agrees with me finally! We should start a union! Write a monthly newsletter!

He clapped his hands over his ears and refused to listen to other stories that reflect other, more entertaining elements of my personality. Byron is great fun to have around!

 

5.12.2007 creepy

Today I was walking through a swarming crowd thinking deep thoughts about secrets and sorrow. The crowd was presumably what threw off my early warning system, because I nearly missed the fact that two very scary dudes were robbing me.

When I sensed the danger I turned and looked at the person touching my shit. He threw both hands in the air, mumbling an apology before racing away.

His friend did not correctly interpret the threat I represent and kinda got in my face. For which he received the full force of my bike crashing into his midsection. Hard enough to send him sprawling across the pavement.

This all happened so fast I had no thoughts whatsoever. The adrenaline and panic didn’t catch up with me until later, after I’d locked my bike and was about to check the mail.

Weirdly my instinct was to call someone. Of course that freaked me out more than the incident itself had.

This business of having feelings is very creepy.

Not to mention the fact that scary dudes should know better. Just by looking at me.

5.11.2007 day

Last night Byron texted from an unknown airport and said Oh man. CRUSHING and sudden grief about Mary dying. Tears! Tears!!

I haven’t cried yet, but that might have something to do with the fact that it was an event I have been anticipating my entire life. The hard part isn’t the fact that she died, or how she died, but instead the notion that she isn’t around any longer.

I am horribly sad but continue to make plans, work, cook dinner, stare at my emotions as they flicker on and off.

In my journal I wrote: Mary died. Mary is dead. Which phrase looks more accurate?

I’ve always missed her, the real her, the best and most amazing Mary, my startling and hilarious and beloved aunt. That feeling will never be resolved.

 

5.10.2007 day

I spent the day wandering in a state of grief, which is interesting since I never used to have appropriate and timely emotions. When the time difference allowed I finally got ahold of my mother, working somewhere in DC.

I asked if I should try to find a flight back and she replied No. There is no reason to come home. 

Seven siblings, all gone except my mother. I have no aunts or uncles. How many cousins are left? Hardly any. I grew up in a huge family, now decimated. This is bewildering.

We talked for awhile and then I said I’m sorry.

She said There is nothing to be sorry about.

I replied It all sucks.

My mother said Yeah, it all sucks. She would have been 49 on the 31st of this month. I knew she would never see fifty.

 

 

5.9.2007 news

This morning I woke to the news that my aunt died.

R.I.P Mary: daughter, sister, mother, friend.

 

 

5.8.2007 day

Yesterday Rachel called to report that my book is in the front, “recommended and new” section of Borders.

Today I checked and yeah, it is true….. I’m a few titles down from Kerry Katona!

This was of course way too strange so I marched off to check on the swans. They hatched while I stood there staring in amazement. It was so cool!

 

 

5.7.2007 bump

Today I went to the fun fair and nurtured a vague fantasy about becoming a carny – I’ve always wanted to have a proper job!

Plus I did something entirely out of character and astonishing: I rode the bumper cars. First time since my head was smashed up nineteen years ago – and I had so much fun!

 

 

5.6.2007 names

Jeffrey wrote to ask if I knew someone who grew up on the peninsula and I replied:

Nobody with that name grew up in my part of the county when I was there! That is a north county / Bainbridge Island name, someone way younger, or made up as an adult….. 

Guess what? I was right – the girl in question is ten years younger and from Bainbridge. Funny how names can say so much about a person.

One recent friend was convinced that my name was secretly something normal like Sally Smith. If only! I’ve always wanted to be more ordinary than a Lavender! Nobody in the entire clan has ever professed to like the name.

The conversation turned to an inquiry about how life is treating me lately and I said I’m awesome! Everything is confusing but I have new glasses so hey! No problem!

Jeffrey answered New glasses. New perspective. You are so damn metaphorical! 

Unfortunately he is correct. I need to work on that.

 

5.4.2007 comprehensive

I met the always delightful Stevie Ann for lunch in the East Village, during which she teased me in a comprehensive and knowledgeable fashion.

Her observations and questions were, as always, way too insightful. I spent a large part of the meal with my face down on the table, laughing helplessly and only surfacing to inquire Is this how real grown-ups talk??

She replied I’m just prompting because you don’t know how to play!

Over the course of the afternoon we walked around in the sunshine catching up on all of the news and gossip that has accumulated in the five or six months since our last visit, then stopped at a flea market.

My lucky dress had by then nearly died – the back seam featuring a rip of about eight inches – but I found a vintage dress with tags still on. We both bought new outfits, then changed on the sidewalk in front of the Boys Club (yes, my driving need for modesty is erratic and irrational – I am much more likely to be found half naked on a city sidewalk…. than in my own home).

It is a tremendous honor that Stevie asked me to be her date to the reunion, and took me along to her father’s celebratory birthday dinner. I bought her first legal drink, we’ve been on tour together, performed together, remained close across years, great distances, real and brutal trauma.

Stevie is the only friend who has ever spent the night at my aunt’s house, and one of the very few who has extracted an admission of love from my reticent self. I’m so lucky to know her:

 

5.3.2007 legacies

I had only a limited amount of time in NY to accomplish a vast number of tasks.

The most critical was of course my annual pilgrimage to Fabulous Fanny’s to acquire not one but two new pairs of spectacles before dashing off to Chinatown, where people are willing to fill outdated and incorrect prescriptions! Nobody else panders to my desire to pretend that my vision is worse than it actually is: I love NYC.

KTS and Alison let me crash in their new place, which is so vast I hardly believed I was still in one of the boroughs. They were talking about installing either a greenhouse or a forest in some of the unused space – I am constitutionally incapable of jealousy (and love my boat) but I definitely felt flickers of envy over the wood floors and extra bathrooms!

At some point KTS commented on his new job, new wife, new home I don’t know why I’m saying this – but – I’m happy with the way things have turned out. 

This was quite an admission from the most sarcastic person I’ve ever met; I’m so pleased that we are friends again, and that his life is trundling along in a manner he enjoys.

One afternoon I was wandering near Union Square and stopped at a shoe store, randomly stumbling across KTS purchasing sneakers. I laughed and laughed as he complained that nobody wants him to be their muse.

We retired to a dive bar (because, as I pointed out, we never went out drinking together at 4:30 in our actual youth – oh, to be back at the Brotherhood in 1992!) where drunk working class women kept stroking my hair as they passed on their way to mysterious errands in an absolutely filthy restroom.

In the nineteen years of our acquaintance I’ve always been strictly truthful but there are assorted topics that we’ve never discussed – to the extent I was not even aware of his first attempt at matrimony. He certainly has no idea (still) of who was sleeping with who in the circus of my student life. This means we have lots of interesting new things to talk about even though we’ve known each other forever – a bonus!

Over the course of an entirely too brief visit and a few scattered meals with Alison we chattered away about life, love, and literature. I interrogated Karl about why he has retained certain friendships and he shrugged and said They’re legacies, about history, not the present.

I’m endlessly thankful that he exercises this prerogative – otherwise, would we still know each other? I doubt it, and he is one of my favorite people ever:

 

 

5.1.2007 vows

Love hears, love knows, love answers across the silent miles and goes. — W.H. Auden

Ten minutes before boarding a flight to NYC I decided to text most of my UK friends to reveal a secret I feel gleeful about. I was quite surprised that most of the people who read the message were shocked and concerned – the story isn’t exactly news, even if my inclination to talk about the subject might be. I reassured everyone of my inherent buoyancy (and the fact that I would never share bad news) then dashed away!

My long-standing policy of ignoring strangers on airplanes was challenged immediately, when I realized that the person next to me was reading through a binder full of what appeared to be lady porn featuring titles like The Shaman and characters named Graywolf.

I was tempted to inquire if she was a fan or an editor but resolutely turned toward the movie screen, where I caught the first bit of Stranger than Fiction before the channel cut out, leaving me without any clue of how the movie ends or what the narrative might have been suggesting. This was unfortunate since I thought the bits I watched quite funny, including the question posed by one character (paraphrasing): Who in their right frame of mind given the choice between pancakes and being alive chooses pancakes?

Hmm. Well, me! Except of course I don’t like pancakes. But swap other temptations in, and you’ve summed up not only my fundamental world view but also the theme of the whole trip.

All of my normal places to stay in NYC fell through but Margaret graciously offered to host me in her studio on the Lower East Side. We met up for an Ethiopian dinner and chattered away about body image and love. At one point she said If you have a hunchback you can just throw a little glitter on it, you know? We all have problems. Everyone has been there.

Over drinks at a hipster bar she told me a long and hilarious tale of going to the desert alone, where she was pursued by strange creatures before laying down in the sand convinced she would die. Then it was back to her haunted bachelorette pad, where I crashed in a deep jetlagged sleep.

In the morning I thanked her fervently for the hospitality and then wandered around the neighborhood a bit, completely amazed by how friendly everyone in the states appears compared to the way people act in England. Beyond that, NYC has always felt comfortable, like a home I want to find, even when the city is at its most challenging.

During the long train ride through working class New Jersey towns I stared out the window, feeling homesick and thinking about the fact that my passport was issued in 2000 and at that point I was so paranoid about travel the experience was almost unbearable.

Now I like the uncertain, in-between moments best of all – a remarkable change in such a short period of time.

I had a couple of free hours before anyone showed up, and settled in the room before venturing out to the boardwalk to admire the ruined buildings:

Several weeks of visitors and interviews had rendered me somewhat unfit for human companionship; my voice was almost entirely gone by the time I found my oldest friend after several years separation. He said It’s nice to see you, Bee.

I replied It’s nice to see you, James, even if I’m dying!

His answer was swift: Well that’s nothing new. I don’t know what you’re complaining about!

We laughed and talked and caught up on sundry issues, and a few hours after meeting he even remembered to ask after the children. One of whom is named after him.

It seemed prudent to scope out how long it would take to get to the wedding venue, and we found that it was only a three minute walk:

Then we wandered around, admiring more of what Asbury Park has on offer:

Later we caught up with the happy couple at Jess’ family home, including a crew of British people. I forced myself to tell the truth about my work; this was difficult but I persevered and quite enjoyed the conversations, particularly with an anesthetist who listened to me laughing, cocked his head, and informed me that I have asthma.

I protested but he commented The fact that you haven’t been diagnosed doesn’t mean you don’t have it. Stop laughing!

After the party seven or eight of us crammed into a taxi meant for four, James wedged across our laps narrating what he saw in the night sky. Does this sound completely out of character for yours truly to put up with? Why yes, yes it does!

We were collectively surprised to learn that our hotel is semi-officially queer and features a gay bar the likes of which it is hard to find outside the confines of small-town America.

Standing around watching a drag show of varying quality we laughed and applauded the good bits and winced over the bad. At one point I commented It fits somewhere in critical theory but nowhere I want to go!

Stephen replied Not with that dress on! and I nearly spit out my drink.

The next day James and I wandered all over town and rested for awhile to prepare for the antics of the evening. I talked to Anna Ruby on the telephone briefly, then Stevie called and left a message that she would be in NY to attend her high school reunion and that I should go with her because The way I see things, you kinda owe me!

What can I say about the wedding? Every last bit of the event was wonderful, in every possible detail, including the posters friends made:

Not to mention the vows, the blessing, the Ketubah, the gathering statement by Stephen including an Auden quote that made me cry.

And, of course, we danced:

The Luminescent Orchestrii played and we all toasted the happy couple, eating food, talking, bowling:

Friends new and old celebrated and had a fantastic time:

A family friend named Pearl offered the toast Nobody worked harder for happiness than Jess.

This is true. I wish both her and Brian every possible wish as they move forward through life.

I started writing the Guardian article about two hours before it was due. There was just enough time to hand my rough draft to Iain for edits (he suggested perhaps five, all minor and most about British word usage), and turned it in without further revision.

The editors asked me to expand the piece by one third, and thirty minutes later they accepted my changes with only one small request for clarification. The essay as published on Saturday is almost identical to the first version I scrambled out without enough caffeine Thursday morning.

For better or worse, this is how I work – intermittently, with sustained bursts of productivity. I write every day for several hours, and take notes incessantly, but I produce a finished product only in thrall to an external deadline.

This is because I write for the sake of writing, not to create a marketable commodity. But when I have agreed to produce something for publication the reason is even more basic: I was trained in a very specific and disciplined method where an essay as properly formulated is constructed and executed while a timer clicks in sixty minute intervals.

When I made the mistake of mentioning this to my agent she replied by text I’ve decided you’re going to do fiction next. I want a good literary novel by the end of the summer please.

I said that I lack the skills for such endeavors and she responded Well write about your past disguised as fiction like every other first time novelist!

When I pointed out that Lessons in Taxidermy mines all of the bits of my history I am willing to put on public display, and that my ethical code does not allow harvesting outside of certain boundaries, she just said Nonsense!

Susan is of course overly optimistic. The other day Jeffrey was telling me a scandalous tale and shopped just short of the juicy bits, saying I’ll leave the rest up to your imagination!

I protested But I don’t have one!

 

 

4.20.2007 advice

The other day Rachel suggested my next book should be called Advice I gave Rachel that she didn’t take!

Jean retorted Or you can be really charitable and write ‘Continental Influences on the Common Law of Contracts 1600-1800!’

That sounds like great fun! I have a hidden yet sincere love of legal history. David says I missed my calling and should have been an ethnographer, but I find legal principles more interesting than… people.

On his last full day in town Gordon and I lounged around on the boat for hours chatting, then had a drink at the Fort St. George. We tried to meet various people but only managed to transfer our drinking to the Eagle, where we gossiped about esoteric aspects of punk history:

You don’t want to know what I have to say on the subject, but he did! Around the time we bored of the topic Rachel finally caught up with us:

Gordon daid my next book should be Robot No More: an Inspiring Tale of Becoming Human which is pretty hilarious, since of course I’m not yet finished with my research on that subject. On the walk over to the Maypole I spotted Iain (the music teacher version) chatting with some buskers and then he spontaneously joined the show:

Over the course of several days I polled everyone I met on the question of what I should do after the wedding in New Jersey: hang out in NYC doing stuff I’m familiar with and seeing friends, or setting off on an unknown adventure?

The only person who voted against adventure was Josh, though I caught him unawares while he was paying for groceries. Greta cast the final vote (strongly in favor of mystery) before I went ahead and bought tickets to a destination that is top secret.

At the Maypole Gordon hazarded the guess I know; you are going on a Watsu retreat!

I admitted ignorance and he said Shiatsu in water! You’ll love it! There will be lots of naked hippies in a hot tub!

Karen interjected And bodily fluids!

Gordon continued and one will say, Hey sister need a backrub? You’ll respond, Why yes, yes I do!

I shuddered and denied that this is my plan just as Rachel absconded with my journal again. Sarah said It’s amazing the liberties she takes with you!

Rachel hollered I’m not afraid! before adding comments to the last week of entries.

Back on the topic of my trip Gordon said I actually think she is going outlet shopping!

Sarah hazarded To the Leggs store to buy panty hose in eggs!

I honestly don’t know which of the two options would be worse.

After we said goodbye Sarah called after me Don’t drink the patchouli!

 

4.17.2007 confess

Last night I was lounging around in rooms at Sidney Sussex talking with new people and old friends when Rachel commented Really close friends aren’t supposed to confess they’re in love with you, they’re meant to live with the pain!

I asked Gordon if he agreed and he reported They’re not supposed to admit it to themselves!

How fascinating.

In entirely separate news I called James to talk about the upcoming trip to New Jersey. We haven’t spoken directly in at least four years and he was amazed at what he perceived as a dramatic difference.

He said Your voice has changed!

I asked how, and he said that it isn’t an accent but rather an adjustment in tenor and tone. He went on So, you just giggle a lot and say ‘awesome’ all the time now?

This is fairly accurate.

 

 

4.16.2007 wiles

On Sunday afternoon Jean and Peter found me on the street and pulled me into a taxi to race off to Grantchester. We had a leisurely pub lunch and lounged around in the shade at the Orchard – clearly, a perfect day!

We were chatting about various people and I realized that although Rachel has known me for three years in often unruly circumstances she still thinks it a good plan to let me tell brutal and hilarious stories about what we’ve individually and collectively been up to – this is quite strange and amazing!

Sarah has known me the same length of time but exclusively when I am on my best behavior. On Saturday she had a snapshot of how I act when loose in the world, and her (admiring) comment after one of my more excessive but typical encounters was Wow – Bee is really mean!

This is true, but to state it more precisely: I do not exercise feminine wiles. I do not accommodate or ignore destructive behaviors.

In other words, I tell the truth, even if implied social codes tell me to keep my mouth shut.

This can be lots of fun at parties!

The last few days have featured madcap adventures and I have been particularly delighted to watch social worlds colliding. Endlessly fun!

Plus, isn’t Gordon just the best?

 

 

4.15.2007 debauchery

There isn’t room on my boat for the sort of drunken debauchery implied by a Cambridge party, so Jean kindly offered the loan of his flat for the revelries. I didn’t take many notes because I was busy having fun, so an observation:

My friends are so lovely!

I promised to start a scandalous rumor but I haven’t had my tea yet so I’ll leave it to your imagination.

The adorable host

A yummy dinner planned by Rachel and executed by helping hands. Leeks! Who knew:

Never put Jean in charge of the camera

 

Rachel sending racy texts from my phone

Gordon, the guest of honor

 

 

4.14.2007 skin

Iain on being a skinhead:

You could wear the fashion and listen to the records all you liked, but until you had your hair shorn you were simply a rude boy, which in Margate was shorthand for someone who was too scared of their mother to take to the barber’s chair.

Click for more

 

 

4.13.2007 friend

Gordon is visiting from San Francisco!

Yesterday I met him near Russell Square to attend an event called Cheese Never Sleeps at the Horse Hospital.

During the course of the party I fell into conversation with a writer named Michael Collins and liked him so much asked if he would like to be my Official New Best Friend.

He agreed, contingent on me revealing my deepest, darkest secret – and I complied.

We stood around eating cheese and laughing and when we could corner Iain my New Best Friend (TM) described to him at length how we would gradually edge him out of the picture and then drop him completely.

Gordon (and later Rachel when she heard) protested over their relative friendship status. I pointed out that Old Best Friends generally know my phone number.

Iain suggested NBF should marry me and I think we both agreed it would be a good plan, though I can’t remember exactly since it was getting so late, and of course I’m opposed to the institution of marriage on principle.

Someone started talking about foreskins and since I’ve never encountered one in my dating life I surveyed the assembled crowd as to their circumcision status.

Everyone who travels under a particular passport answered in amazement Of course, I’m American!

The British claimed to be mostly intact.

I’m already ramshackle and the weekend is really just starting, but on the train back to Cambridge Gordon served up presents! Tamari almonds, yum!

 

 

4.12.2007 river

Cows are grazing on Midsummer Common for the first time since I took up residence on the river!

Plus, the ducklings in Jesus Ditch are hatching! First of the year:

 

 

4.10.2007 vocabulary

On Sunday night Jean invited me over for a dinner with two of his old friends from South Africa. They told hilarious stories about our host in his youth while the young man in question protested that it was all exaggeration.

I believe his friends!

One of the best parts of living in Cambridge is the fact that people speak in enormous unravelling paragraphs featuring words like tonsorial. In my misbegotten childhood the possession of a huge vocabulary was never considered an asset; I always had to hide the fact that I was a walking, talking dictionary.

It was great fun to hang out and engage in endless chatter with Paul, a new and extremely decadent friend who took notes about the wine. I excused myself to take a call from Rachel, who arrives in the UK soon. We have already started scheming!

That call lasted for about twenty minutes, which would normally be a record for me, except (and this is dramatic news) the other day I talked on the cursed device for two and a half hours.

My reputation has been ruined.

I’m resting between rounds of late nights with guests and my days feature a lazy walk across Coe Fen and the Sheep’s Green along a creek where I stop and hang out with polliwogs before venturing further to conservation land bordered by what I suspect is rapeseed:

This town is so sleepy the taggers at the train bridge don’t even turn in alarm when they hear someone approach, a fact I find hilarious. Next to the tracks I usually see rabbits hopping through bushes about to bloom, and I stop and look at the flowers growing up through gravel:

When I’ve gone as far as my injured leg allows I turn back and sit under the willow tree next to the Mill, reading novels and writing in my journal:

Yesterday evening I watched the sunset on the Backs, then sat on the fountain in the deserted market square, listening to church bells ring.

Later as I walked down Trinity a lorry came barreling down the ancient street, popped the curb, and came within two inches of smearing me into a bloody pulp on the cobbles.

I didn’t even flinch; I just kept walking.

 

 

4.9.2007 flirting

Recently as I marched through a London club some strange boy commented I like your dress!

I frowned down at my outfit; I was wearing my boring basic black skirt and shirt, not a dress, but I remembered my manners and resisted the urge to correct the fellow. Instead I said an emphatic thank you and continued on my way.

When I fetched up with friends I described the incident, since it is so rare for strangers to talk to me at all, and Susan suggested that it wasn’t actually my clothing that was being admired.

Iain said You would just pick any compliment apart, wouldn’t you?

When they are not accurate, yes.

Jeffrey started to protest over the honor of my (as Mark Mitchell would say) legendary milky white bosom because someone with lesser attributes was fronting more exposed cleavage. I put my fingers in my ears and hummed as he delivered a soliloquoy on the subject until he laughed and said I’m sorry, was that inappropriate?

From there talk ranged but ended at a predictable juncture where I said In the states nobody hits on me!

Jeffrey said That is a lie!

Integrity imperiled, but believing myself to be truthful as I have not noticed such things, I said Prove it! Nobody has in front of you!

He rolled his eyes and replied True, nobody has in my presence, but I have hit on you several times!

My mouth dropped open in shock.

I have been conducting extensive research into the subject of flirting for a little over a year. When I explained this to Marisa she wanted to know why, and the reason is simple – and illustrated by Jeffrey’s comment – I was getting in more trouble lacking basic skills than I would if I understood what the heck was happening around me.

I figured I would have proof of the success of the scheme if a stranger hit on me. That benchmark proved consistently out of reach, mostly because I am obtuse and stern, though I did have a few rather alarming interactions with people, that Ana Erotica patiently interpreted after the fact.

She told me that Jeffrey had hit on me, but I didn’t believe her – the only odd thing I noticed about our friendship is the fact that he is solicitous of me, unlike anyone else I’ve ever hung out with. And that he found my research project annoying.

Once I understood the complexity of the endeavor I decided to abandon the project. Why?

Because the various practical aspects of flirting as described by those questioned are, fundamentally, outside the scope of my skills. It is literally impossible for me to turn on the charm to impress anyone – I am friendlier than I’ve ever been in my life, but I remain unconcerned about what other people think of me.

M made the following observations:

You’re a stone cold fox with tunnel vision. People flirt with you all the time, you just don’t notice. I’m going to get one of those clicker things and spend an entire day with you making a tally! Grown men shout at you in the street that you’re beautiful!

I replied That is just crazy street behavior!

She sighed in exasperation. No, that is crazy street flirting! This is a really small toolset. I bet in a year you’ll have the skills and when you look back at the journal entries you won’t even understand what you were talking about.

Her prediction may come true, but that does not mean I will choose to exercise the skills, if acquired. Why? Because my recondite adventures reminded me that I’m a love magnet, even when I am scrupulously unavailable. In fact, there may be a correlation between the two facts. I have a few adorable friends who deserve and want to be loved without finding what they are seeking, while my overly committed adult life features a need to routinely fend off declarations of true love.

I asked Gordon why this is true and he gave me a laundry list of my desirable attributes. Followed up by a pointed order to accept the compliments. I asked – but why love? Why not something light and superficial?

He replied Well… you’ve got gravitas Bee. Sorry.

This week I was organizing my notes on the subject and realized that one of the people who hit on me last year was not, in fact, a friend – but instead a stranger. Believing otherwise was just an optical illusion.

That leads to the question: What is my definition of stranger given that I travel, perform, and meet hundreds of new people every year?

Tricky to explain; anyone who turns up at one of my shows or uses one of my web sites is automatically not a stranger. Anyone introduced to me by friends, anyone who lives in a series of houses in Portland and San Francisco, anyone who hangs out at the Bus Stop, writers represented by my agent or published by the same companies, a certain kind of expat, most who dwell in a couple of west coast subcultures, and most mad scientists automatically go in the category loosely understood as known. This is distinct from an idea of friendship, as I also know my enemies.

A stranger would then be someone who knows nothing about me except what they see, and still tries to talk to me. If you exclude taxi drivers, people asking for directions, and bartenders (and Ana definitely wouldn’t let me get away with that legerdemain), I know for a fact that only three strangers talked to me last year. Those were all awkward chats on airplanes.

If the hypothesis that the person in question was in fact a stranger is valid, my odd statistics have been completely flawed, though I wasn’t really paying sufficient attention at the time. Now I am normal! Or something.

The whole thing was both amusing and rewarding, though I still have no desire to talk to strangers.

 

 

4.8.2007 bright

The other day my mother wrote to ask if I remember going on an easter egg hunt in a Bremerton park and finding the prized golden egg – a mighty achievement in that destitute town. I had forgotten, but her query brought the whole experience back instantly: the sloping hard-packed earth, the pine needles on the ground, the chaos of other children running helter-skelter, grabbing and shoving.

When I went to the stage to exchange the shiny egg for a special prize the woman in charge handed me a doll, and I did not know how to ask for what I really wanted. I walked away in tears, but my mother understood and patiently took me back to exchange the toy for Play-doh. How old was I then? Perhaps three.

I was not raised with religion, but I did have a family, and holidays were always very important. Today I should be at my grandmother’s farm, sitting at the big oak table, laughing with my aunts and uncles (never the cousins – I hung out with the grownups). But they’re mostly all gone, along with the farm, and I live on the other side of the world.

Recent events back home have been very difficult for everyone concerned and I could not go back to help. I wrote to my mother and said I’m sorry– and I am. I feel real sorrow over the fact that I grew up and away and have lost that family, even if choosing a different life was the right thing to do.

She wrote back that I am not allowed to be sorry – never, not about anything.

This is the first Easter my son has been away from me, the first year in my entire adult life that I have not been woken by children clamoring for their baskets.

December was dark, April is bright. I will not see my son for an entire month and by the time we meet again he may well have grown the two inches required to exceed my height. Everything is changing, and this is wonderful and painful in equal measure.

I know that I am a lucky person, but I recognize that life is a series of perilous and fortuitous choices. I’m crying right now but tonight I’ll have dinner with Jean and whoever else shows up, and laugh, and feel endlessly thankful for community, friendship, family, springtime

4.6.2007 satisfied

Another satisfied customer:

 

 

4.4.2007 gingham

At some point in a crazed decadent series of days in London we were lounging around a hotel in various states of disrepair. My son was secreted in a closet reading novels while my grown-up daughter had sequestered herself in the living room watching Old Yeller and yelling out descriptions scene by scene.

I was completely overwhelmed by an exquisite moment listening to a Stevie Wonder record as Jeffrey talked about his latest crush. What I felt was an incredibly intense and overbearing sensation of perfection, like watching a white swan gliding down a black river, or the swifts swooping above the Brighton pier, or the hometown dock at midnight when nothing separates you from a swift surrender, a complete sensory and intellectual cessation – just dropping – nothing at all except this sense that the world made sense, for an instant, a moment, forever, or maybe it didn’t, but it was amazing.

Then my daughter pointed out that we were not paying attention to the fact that Old Yeller had a brawl with a bear and Jeffrey hollered back We have bigger problems!

The girl responded I’ll listen to your problems when you’re wearing gingham! and I dissolved in helpless laughter, the hilarity shattering any vague idea of profundity, and that was also perfect.

Later I asked Jeff Why is my life so weird?

He replied You like adventure.

I said True, but not as much as I’ve had recently!

He was quick with the observation You are so used to danger you like to keep it close to you.

I didn’t think before saying Not on purpose! Quite the opposite!

Jeffrey sighed and replied I don’t know, I don’t have an answer… your life may be weird, but it is beautiful.

This is true.

Jeffrey flew away today. I’ll miss him.

 

4.3.2007 welcome

Walking through Shoreditch staring at the array of bars and restaurants and stylish people, I turned to my companions in wonder and asked Why don’t I live in a place I want to be, with people I want to look at?

Jeffrey didn’t understand, because he had fun in Cambridge, but Byron shook his head mournfully; he feels it more than I ever could, since he prefers the wild flirtatious antics available elsewhere.

Within about half a block I had sorted out this dilemma because I remembered that I never look at other people, especially those who want the attention. And, more significantly, the Shoreditch scene (while attractive) looks a lot like home, in the sense that everyone is wearing ironic T-shirts.

Later, standing around a hipster (I have not identified the equivalent local term) bar, Sunok asked why I don’t move to London. I shrugged and said If I were here I would just be thinking about the next place.

She looked at Peter and he clarified She is the traveling sort.

This is true, and something I did not know until Sarah-Jane pointed it out to me, several years after I decided to abandon everything familiar – and accept the consequences.

The trick is that I do not enjoy living in Cambridge more or less than anywhere else. Each city has advantages and disadvantages, is equally lovely and horrible in its own special way. My relative happiness has almost nothing to do with the place itself.

If asked I might say the worst town I’ve ever lived in is Shelton – but why? Because my time was divided between a job that crushed my youthful ideals, and shifts caring for my grandmother in hospice. The only clear memory I have from that year is watching her face as she died, and falling to my knees sobbing (much to the dismay of my stoic family – we do not collectively indulge in emotions).

Photographs tell a different story, of a small beautiful house, and funny neighbors, and my four year old daughter laughing as she made a snowman. I wish that I had access to those memories, but it is sufficient to know that life did in fact continue, that I did not succumb to the looming depression that could have exterminated any hope for the future.

In fact, I did not let myself fall apart until much later, when I was safe. The deepest gloom I’ve let invade my life was definitely triggered by external events – 9/11, a broken tailbone, a stolen manuscript, work woes. But more significantly: I had people nearby who wanted to take care of me, who would make sure that falling apart did not translate to suicide or worse (and in my opinion there are worse choices). One dark winter in Portland featured the most wretched emotions I’ve ever encountered. But I had friends and family nearby. I knew there was help if I needed it.

Not that this would have been obvious to most observers – Byron and possibly Gabriel being the exceptions. I do not complain, or protest, or even talk about problems that might make sense to other people. I do not need assistance when traumatized – I am an expert at crisis management.

The things that I truly had no capacity to cope with were all positive – friends, community, extravagantly good times all hurt when first encountered. Back then I had no relative ability to appreciate the brilliant life I had created from scratch. Understanding that fact was frightening, because it meant that I had to change in a fundamental way I had never considered.

Disease and poverty conditioned me to anticipate and accept pain as my daily reality. At the same time: I have a good mother, so I am a good mother. Taking care of children is easy.  Friendship, fun, other kinds of love? Scary!

It took assiduous effort to live in a new way, and the whole thing has been horribly painful at times. People are messy, and emotions are risky. Learning to take what was on offer did not lead to greater certainty; falling in love with a city mysteriously translated to the choice to leave, a short distance at first and then all the way to the other side of the world.

This feels right; my friends, my home, allowed me to figure out that I’m the sort of person who keeps moving on.

While I miss elements of each discarded life I get a huge thrill out of every new adventure. I am endlessly thankful for all that has happened, good and bad, and quite curious to see what is next.

The other afternoon I found myself in a London hotel room having a food fight with Jeffrey – I bounced cinnamon jelly beans off his head and he scored a few into my cleavage and I fell about giggling – not realizing until hours later that it has been nineteen long years since I engaged in such antics.

Why? Because until, oh, Monday, if anyone threw something at me I would have had flashbacks to the blinding white light that took over my brain when the car I was driving at age seventeen was struck, not once but twice, at high speed on a rural highway.

My startle reflex has not vanished. Earlier in the week Josh walked up behind me without warning at dinner, and when he leaned in to whisper in my ear I shrieked. Then I looked at his shocked face and dissolved in laughter.

This new ability to play even as I feel the same complicated neurological response is a change, a calibration – and quite welcome!

 

 

4.2.2007 ornament

There is one critical fact to report: Jeffrey inherited a Winnebago!

Just imagine. My summer is not yet fully booked – road trip, anyone?

Jeffrey would be the perfect housemate if I were in the market for one. I’ve happily taken up residency in the living room of his bachelor pad (featuring an almost non-stop party) and it was no burden at all to host him on my narrowboat (featuring ferocious swans peering in the windows), though he was not able to stand up straight. Who really needs to anyway? The river is more than enough compensation for cramped quarters.

I dragged Jeffrey along to a birthday “do” (as the English would say) at a pub, and hung out with lots of fab friends:

We had additional mad pub adventures with Jean and Paul and assorted posh academics, then took Jeffrey out to observe a typical English night after the pubs closed. Stepping over the drunks and puddles of vomit, avoiding the woman trying to break a store window with her handbag, skipping away from another woman who wanted to touch Jeffrey’s hat, I treated him to a midnight kabab:

One night at a pub a skinhead leered at me and asked Are you a Personality?

Then he squinted drunkenly up at Jeffrey, and inquired Are you two Personalities?

He explicitly meant, were we performers? Famous? We just stared at him, then took our drinks to another section of the room.

At some point during days of revelry and travel Jeffrey told me Boys are afraid of girls who laugh loud!

Oh, cool! I said, and laughed and laughed.

We tried to get tickets to see Verdi’s Messa da Requiem performed at the Ely Cathedral but it was sold out. I cleverly assumed practice would happen the afternoon of the show and hauled the crew out to see my prediction come true.

We had a picnic in the sunlight on a hill in the grounds next to the King’s School, foals gamboling in the field below, Jeffrey wrestling with my son, and the day was so wonderful I wanted to fall asleep and stay there forever.

The tall men toured the Octagon Tower, my kids sat and listened to the music, and I hung out in the Lady Chapel, staring once again in amazement at the smashed stonework, the Green Man presiding over it all.

 

Cycling out to the Orchard at Grantchester we ran into Richard on the path behind the pub.

He smiled and said I saw you in the Guardian!

I halfway fell off my bike and yelped Oh, god (feeling virtuous that I did not curse in front of his lovely child).

As we locked the bikes I asked Byron Did you hear that? My cover is blown!

He laughed and mocked me and I said See you pretend to be supportive but you aren’t at all!

He replied I am supportive. I support you in getting over your fear of success!

This is an example of how those we believe close can misunderstand important aspects of our interior lives. I’ve never been afraid of success – when my work gets recognized I am pleased. But not because I, me, myself wants the attention. I am simply the vessel for the message, and would prefer to be invisible.

Occasionally that is not possible; the nature of the world and my brand of work in particular demands a figurative representation, and I sometimes willingly sacrifice my privacy. But the whole thing feels creepy.

I grew up in a small town and have been trying to disappear in a crowd ever since.Over tea at the Orchard Jeffrey remarked You can take comfort from the fact that it was someone who already knew.

 

He then went on to talk about crushes (yes, this is his favorite topic) and he said I think the whole concept of people falling in love with someone because of their talent is very problematic – also very honorable and above the crushes based on looks. But talent crushes don’t translate to anything in the real world – they are the highest maintenance and the least likely to last.

This is true, but then again, you never know what people see. The other day a highly perceptive and entertaining friend called to say that he had read my book. He smothered me with compliments that slid right out of my mind and then asked Do you still have the scars?

I was baffled, and thought perhaps there was a language gap because neither of us is British, but he meant the query earnestly.

I said Of course – where would they have gone?

They are not only visible, but often on display – my lacerated neck is rarely covered even in the deepest gloom of winter. I said You can see them if you look!

When I told Jeffrey this story he shrugged and remarked Well, you don’t wear damage like an ornament.

 

 

 

The article I wrote showed up in the Guardian today:

How can we solve the problem of teen parenting? By recognising it is a choice, not a problem.

Click for more

 

3.30.2007 thrill

Somewhere in the middle of last night I was walking arm in arm with Paul when he remarked that it was good he didn’t have meetings until late the next afternoon.

I replied I’ll be up at eight to attend a Church of England primary school Easter service!

The morning started with music blasting and Jeffrey telling a story about how he tried to convince everyone that Elliot Smith’s Either/Or is a Christmas album (I agree, or at least, I listened to it a lot during the recent festive season), then we were out the door and on our way, improbably, to church.

Before the children even started to sing I’d managed to spill scalding tea all over my hands and the floor of Great St. Mary’s. Jeffrey offered me his banana to cool my singed fingers and when I refused proceeded to fondle and play with it, hiding it in my gloves and snapping photographs.

Byron texted If I misbehave will you take me out of here?

Jeffrey answered out loud When I finish this coffee I’m going to have a conniption fit! Then the noise all the babies are making won’t matter!

I kept shushing them but all three of us were completely restless while most of the other parents sat and beamed at the adorable English children acting out scenes of crucifixion and resurrection.

Though Richard was sitting in the pew in front of me and I did see him smack his forehead during the sermon.

The minister (pastor? Priest? Byron grew up with a minister father and he doesn’t even know what the proper honorific is) started an elaborate story including the query How much water is there in a man’s body?

Jeffrey hissed What about whiskey?

It is good that I’ve lost my voice from too much laughter, as I would have been giggling uncontrollably throughout the entire service.

My brilliant son surprised me by singing a solo – he didn’t tell me he would be performing at all!

It was a shocking thrill to hear his pristine voice ringing through the huge old church.

 

 

3.29.2007 disconnected

Last night we met friends at the Pickerel, where I explained to Jeff that I like Josh because he is the only person in town other than me who illustrates an opinion by making the wrist flicking jerk-off motion so beloved by my working class compatriots.

Greta, as a woman, is another enjoyable rarity in the realm of mad scientists – though I never knew that as a child she trained to be an Olympian speed skater! She served up an entertaining account of scaring off attackers with with her shiny, dangerous skates – highly amusing!

On December 1 Jeffrey posted a public challenge on his Crush of the Week blog that declared So bring it on. Have a crush on something good for you for once. If you do it I will.

I formally took him up on the dare, but haven’t checked on his progress since.

His original (drunken) observation was about truly nice folks being passed over by those who like to fuck danger more than people.

We defined the rules of the dare as: Jeffrey cultivating a crush on someone who can play a meaningful role in his life, with the hope that the emotion will be reciprocated.

How am I participating in the scheme? I could probably win the race if I had any sort of crush at all.

But Jeffrey points out, correctly, that he has never met a woman as disconnected as me. I would prefer to flirt, but learning how did not lead to something I can describe as infatuation. Though I disagree with the parallel Jeffrey assessment that I find snipers hot; no, more worryingly, I find them amusing.

Also: Jeffrey is literally the only person in the world (let alone Cambridge) who would dare chew on my shoulder:

 

 

3.28.2007 boisterous

I fell behind schedule preparing for the most recent guest. When he arrived I was still in my jammies and vaguely wielding a sponge – but Jeffrey just laughed and said At least you have your lipstick on!

I scrambled through chores and got dressed and we walked to town. Crossing Jesus Green Jeffrey remarked (as all of my NW friends have within twenty minutes of arriving) You live in, like… fucking Disneyland!

Too true.

The city delivered a foggy, sunny afternoon of wandering through college gardens; we even got lost in a part of Trinity we were not authorized to explore.

Jeffrey crushed out on half the people we saw and placed an order for a brainy brunette. Too bad Rachel is in Montreal at the moment!

Jeffrey is one of the key figures in the conspiracy of adoration that rules my Seattle existence – my ears are bright red from all the compliments today – and it is just so much fun to hang out with him!

My week will be spent marching around quaint English scenes with two boisterous six foot six American men dressed in black. I’m going to pretend they are my bodyguards!

 

3.27.2007 time

On Sunday the weather turned from grim to lovely and I took advantage of the sunlight to throw the first picnic of the year.

Unfortunately the temperature was not amenable to this plan, so after shivering through lunch we retired to a cafe to read. I was browsing through an interview with Michelle Yeoh when I absorbed the startling fact that Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon came out seven long years ago.

I remember standing in a long queue (at the time I would have said line) on NW 21st with James and Byron quite distinctly because it was one of the rare times I let anyone other than my two companions babysit either of my children, ever.

The experience was also unusual because a stranger came up and started to heckle us because he did not approve of the way people were flocking to see that particular film.

We three just sort of stared. When he asked why we had chosen to be part of the herd-like crowd I answered reasonably Because we have tickets!

James had run away from home to live in my basement, where he spent his days arranging broken objects and taking photographs. At night he walked around the city. I do not recall spending much time with him at all during that sabbatical from his real life.

Other times with James are much more distinct in my mind – our first meeting, during a small-town parade. Sitting together in the high school hallway, admiring his leopard print shoes.

We toasted a New Year with Denny’s coffee as lonesome teenagers, my infant daughter propped between us. He says that he would not have gone to college unless I pestered him to apply, and this is true; I deliberately dragged him away from his childhood home.

I remember his dorm kitchen, and long crazy conversations in the musty garage bedroom at the Dundee house, and the music he played while making dinners in the yellow cabin.

We once drove a hundred miles with a car crammed full of my belongings, a huge clear plastic box containing a trophy baseball hat belonging to my in-laws improbably wedged between his lap and the dashboard, talking endlessly about existentialism and silly television shows.

One night when I was pregnant with my son we wandered in the Arizona desert with a woman who disliked me in a striking way, who would later tell him to choose between her love or my friendship. He said No.

During that trip he introduced me to Jess and I can even pull up a clear image of the napkin dispenser on the table of the restaurant where we ate lunch. It was a magical moment – she was the first adult I’d met who had also survived a life-threatening childhood illness and could talk about it without dissolving in tears. We laughed and laughed and eleven years later, she is still a good friend.

There are also many difficult and painful memories, and a whole lot of growing up over the course of twenty tumultuous years. I remain amazed that we are friends, through all of the strange changes and across such long distances.

In the last seven years we’ve seen each other exactly once – and he was ill and dosed up on cold medicine. We didn’t talk much during that visit, we just sucked down pho and sprawled around my Seattle living room.

But we write to each other pretty much every day, a constant fact for twenty years, and it is likely that we always will. James is one of my closest friends ever despite inconvenient geographic separation, and as such is the namesake of my son – he may even inherit said child if I depart too soon and Marisa decides that Ann Arbor is a good place for my kid to live.

James is also tasked with organizing whatever celebration marks my death. I do not want a funeral, and it will be his job to figure out what to do as a substitute. This is of course my logical response to the fact he told me he would not cry when I die – if everyone else is distracted by pesky emotions like grief, he may as well be the one renting a hall.

A few weeks from now we’ll meet up in Asbury Park to watch Jess marry Brian. Two nights and three days in New Jersey will not be anywhere near sufficient to catch up on everything that has happened in this adult lifetime, but that is irrelevant. Our friendship is not predicated on anything except love for each other.

 

3.26.2007 diorama

Cambridge is without exagerration the most difficult place I could have chosen to move to (if you recall that I will never go anywhere featuring sunlight). The culture of the place is so fundamentally antithetical to the way I’ve always lived it generally feels like I’ve taken up residence in a diorama. A very nicely arranged and pretty scene, but still – false.

This is largely a function of history and assigned value. I’m a working class rabble rouser wandering in a world that is the very definition of elite – without any academic affiliations or desire to acquire them.

I’m surrounded by people who care about status more than almost anything else, and I do not register on their scale, nor do I care. When asked what I do I honestly shrug and say Nothing.

Even if pressed I will not admit any of the numerous items on my CV that would impress a famous academic. People are welcome to believe whatever they like.

Life in the NW was and is all about community and friendship, a huge overwhelming truth that I didn’t have the skills to appreciate when I believed myself a permanent resident.

Life in Cambridge is about isolation and work, and although I do not belong here, I am thankful every day.

 

3.25.2007 diligent

Recently at a dinner party I was talking to a psychologist who somehow managed to solicit my clinical diagnoses. I’ve never met anyone in her profession who talks shop at a party, but I shrugged and told her: PTSD and OCD (while one is often an aspect of the other, mine were precipitated and diagnosed separately).

She thought that I was far too balanced and comfortable to have ever been as sick as I was, and said so. I replied that I honestly could not even make eye contact until I was twenty-nine years old. She wanted to know more – how did I recover without therapy, drugs?

I shrugged and said I had everything I needed.

The truth is that submitting to a course of treatment would have been an additional trauma – I was hurt by doctors, even if they kept me alive. I couldn’t get better unless I fixed myself.

It took ten years of diligent work, and there is a lifetime of more ahead of me, but I have made enormous progress.

I remember being so reserved I practically did not talk. Lately I hardly ever stop.

In fact, I am no longer the cold, lonely person described in the first three-quarters of Lessons in Taxidermy. Yes, I have both metaphoric and literal scars. But my slightly demented mutiny against the past worked in a fundamental way.

I’ve changed so much I hardly know myself. I have fantastic adventures but I also have feelings. How confusing!

Last night I asked Byron if I have changed beyond recognition, and he said You’re just growing up.

 

3.24.2007 umbrella

Rushing out to a photo shoot I realized that it was raining and grabbed the first umbrella that came to hand – a big, tattered, broken old thing that a random friend left behind.

I own a substantial number of umbrellas that are stylish and attractive, but it would have been far too clever to dig one out given that the brolly became a major prop for the photographs.

Since the article is about my experiences as a teen parent, the elder child consented to let us exploit her.

This is rare to the point of nonexistent; through the ten years of promoting my magazine and books books I’ve never willingly allowed the children to be depicted. But my daughter is officially a grown-up now, and makes her own decisions about these matters.

We stood about Parker’s Piece in the rain and wind chatting as the nice man from the paper snapped away. At some point he commented about the article They say it is a jolly story, yeah?

Well, no. I would describe it as a long fractious rant about discrimination, but replied Um, okay.

My daughter provided a constant stream of hilarious stories and we laughed and laughed. On our way to the next destination the photographer commented She is a lively one!

That would of course be an understatement.

Fetching up at the Arts Picturehouse cafe, we asked permission to shoot more and then arranged ourselves at a table by the window. The fact that it was a Saturday afternoon meant that the place was crowded with people staring and openly eavesdropping.

My cover, in other words, is officially blown. From now on I will not be able to get away with claiming that I do nothing when asked about my work.

When we finished and said our farewells the photographer turned to the girl and said What bribe did you get for this?

It hadn’t occurred to her to ask for a bribe, or that the process would be simultaneously fun and unnerving.

I sighed and handed over thirty quid.

 

3.23.2007 reality

On Wednesday I woke up at six but the morning somehow managed to spiral out of control, finding me rushing as I smacked on tricky new mascara purchased the night before just as the car was supposed to collect me at eight. The basic concept never change beauty routines when pressed for time has obviously not taken hold.

My hands were shaking as I wielded a potentially disfiguring cosmetic wand near my eyes and this was quite puzzling. I’m never nervous before these sort of events – instead, I fall apart after. I reviewed my mental files and decided the recent roster of bereavement was the likely source of the shakiness: two family members and one friend have died, and a close relative was institutionalized after a near lethal suicide attempt. All within about ten days.

Facts of that nature are difficult to contemplate at the best of times, let alone when circumstances dictate charisma be exercised. But my childhood taught me how to efficiently ignore unruly emotions and this proved useful for once: I finished getting ready and dashed out the door.

My publicist met me in the lobby of the BBC and we chatted with the other guests before being whisked into the studio. The show was highly entertaining though I made a fool of myself in front of a national audience, as is my habit.

I feel extremely lucky that the archive of Midweek disappears after a few weeks, since I am reliably informed that the recording includes something along these paraphrased lines (I’m not going to listen so I can’t provide a true quote):

Libby: Bee, why didn’t you speak to your therapist?

Bee (flatly): Working class people don’t do therapy. Talking about feelings? What are those? As far as I know I didn’t have feelings until last year.

After the show ended we had a lively short chat about radiation and nefarious government research projects (Hanford, anyone?) and then surged away to our various destinations.

The publicist guided me on to the next radio studio, but we were early and I fell into conversation with two bikers who were hugely entertaining. We chattered about assorted topics and they somehow extracted my version of what Lessons in Taxidermy is about, probably to the dismay of my publicist, who might wish that I giggled a bit less about things like childhood cancer.

The bikers, however, were great fun and not at all fazed even when we lurched across existential and metaphysical topics. It was in fact a lot like hanging out with my extended family. Later I was informed that they have a television program – they are literally Hairy Bikers.

The further chats with BBC regional programs went fantastically well and I stayed on form, remembering all of my media training and also what the book is about. Then it was took me to a series of bookstores to sign copies of the book and have charming conversations with book sellers, as always one of the best parts of my job!

We met Kate, my editor, at RIBA for lunch. They toasted me with champagne and we talked and laughed. The restaurant tables are arrayed around a central installation, this week a large strange wooden object, the bit nearest me offering the statement Learning within a reality that is messy needs to be a little messy itself.

Back at the radio station I chatted with the bikers a bit more before going on the air with BBC West Midlands, talking to a host who was significantly interested in my double vision story (or at least the gory bits of it). He asked about life on the boat, and why I decided to buy one so precipitously without any knowledge or experience. The answer is easy: I fell in love.

I said goodbye to the publicist and spent a few hours attempting to work on a newspaper article, with no success whatsoever, until Iain texted to ask if I fancied a drink. I met him near Oxford Circus and he took me to a very odd goth pub, where I told the tale of my day and we caught up on sundry things before setting off to a sushi dinner.

I’m not exactly sure how I met Iain – I suspect it had something do to with the Chloe fundraiser at the Horse Hospital – but our friendship is one of the best bits about living in this country. He also read my book and gave it to his agent, who in turn became my agent and sold it to Orion – meaning Iain is directly responsible for all of the fantastic things that have happened in my career this year.

Susan, Amanda, and Xtina met us at the restaurant and my agent served up hugs and kisses and a card addressed to my favorite mutant.

I am endlessly thankful to have so many good friends.

Back home in Cambridge I flung myself on the floor of the boat, curled into a ball, and cried for two hours.

My life is sometimes rather strange.

 

 

3.21.2007 kinship

Just as I was about to depart for London I opened a message from Mash informing me that a childhood friend died.

I’ve written about this person before; he was one of the other sick kids in school, and in Lessons in Taxidermy he shows up crawling through the springs of my hospital bed.

We were never particularly close because his house was on the other side of the forest, but there was definite kinship and secret camaraderie because we were abysmally different from the other children.

Later when we learned to hide our illnesses he became a popular metal kid while I was hanging with the outcasts and punks. We never talked much but we respected each other from a distance – and defended each other when appropriate.

I lost track of him seventeen years ago, but I often wondered where he was, if he had married or had children. The fact that he is gone, that his loved ones are bereaved, is extremely sad. On the train to the city I stared out at bucolic fields dusted in snow, thinking about home and the woods where we used to play.

This morning my nerves should be shattered but I am just sad. This seems like an appropriate emotion as the book is launched.

 

3.20.2007 dissonance

Tomorrow is the official UK release of Lessons in Taxidermy.

Tonight I’m holed up in a swanky London hotel under orders to write an article about the experience of being a working class teenage mother.

Cognitive dissonance is my new best friend.

 

3.19.2007 unflinching

It is one of the many charms of this book that Lavender is not only aware of the conventions of such autobiographies but that she consciously rejects them. Her powerful, elegant memoir should be read by everyone…. as an example of what truly well-written and unflinching self-examination can be like.  –The Sunday Telegraph

 

3.18.2007 rose

Happy Mothering Sunday if you qualify for the title!

I was very happy to receive Linda Ronstadt: Greatest Hits as my present. That album is the one that I most remember my mother singing along to as we drove around the county when I was a child.

Plus I think the cover of Love is a Rose is brilliant!

 

3.17.2007 fall

Tonight I went to the pub with various people, forgetting for the third year in a row that going out in Cambridge on St. Patrick’s Day is not the most congenial choice.

We were lucky to snag two stools and a bit of wall at the Pickerel, where we were crammed up against each other. I had my back to the room and strangers kept jostling against me and actually pushing my body back and forth as they struggled through the crowd. At some point a posh young academic insinuated himself in our trio, put his face right in front of mine, and shouted I love your glasses!

That never happens here though it is a routine part of life back in the states. I patiently had the stock discussion about where I purchased them, where I’m from, whether or not Frasier is an accurate depiction of Seattle, etc.

Then I had a highly entertaining conversation with my friends that skipped across various topics and briefly settled on the case of a mutual acquaintance who has a Play While Away policy that his spouse does not know about.

One person took the position that the antics are justified because of various domestic complications. I of course believe that telling the truth is of paramount importance.

Beyond that, if we all know about the infidelities the wife is going to find out eventually. But our opinions on the subject are not particularly relevant, other than my statement I’m still not going to introduce him to any of my hot friends!

Later in the evening I received email from an old friend that read I found a job – now I can divorce my wife!

From what I could discern the end of the relationship was not precipitated by an event, just a long slow drift away from whatever mattered when the couple met thirteen years ago. It would appear that the split is amicable, the only real point of concern being custody of a much loved dog.

This struck me as quite civilized compared to what other people I know are dealing with.

A few months ago I met another friend in a cafe in Paris and listened as he told me that his partner had embarked on an affair. He was desperately unhappy about the situation and after talking for hours asked How can I make my wife love me again?

My instinct was to deconstruct the ideas behind make and my and wife but he needed support, not my ongoing sociological research inquiries. I answered She does love you. She is staying with you, you have children and careers and a home, you share a life.

He shook his head and said No, that isn’t enough. How do I make her fall in love with me again?

His pain washed over me and I knew that I could not help him, that I’d never experienced the sort of love he was talking about, or if I had, it was so long ago the memory is buried in the wreckage of my youth.

I wanted to cry. I shook my head and replied I’m sorry. You can’t.

 

3.15.2007 surprising

Out with the East London Massive – and look who received the best gift ever:

 

 

 

3.13.2007 two

There are two new things that have vastly improved the experience of life in Cambridge.
First, a fruit and veg stall in the market square is selling fresh carrot juice every single day!

Second, a theoretically Mexican restaurant has opened on Regent Street – and while not good, it is better than anything in London.

We expats exchange the information in hushed and reverent tones.

 

3.12.2007 bruise

This morning I stared at my feet for twenty minutes, baffled by the fact that my toe is a solid yellow and brown bruise. Several hours later I remembered Oh yeah…. it is broken….

Today was officially the start of sunblock season; I’ll be slightly sticky from now until next autumn!

As I cycled across Jesus Green in my standard summer costume of black, black, and more black some gutterpunks shouted Oh, my, goth! at me and I laughed and laughed.

Except, are they called gutterpunks in this country?

 

3.11.2007 privilege

On her last night in town Marisa and I went on a long walk out to Fen Ditton, traversing muddy fields and listening to birds sing. We stood at the river’s edge and watched the light fade from the sky, the colors reflecting on the calm water.

Back in town we stopped at a pub to toast each other with Guinness and observe the population in their natural habitat. We’re both given to quizzical behavior of this kind; it is good to hang out with someone who has an equal need for silent assessment.

At some point when we were not analyzing the group dynamics at the table next to us Marisa informed me that I exercise a high degree of femme privilege.

I objected But I’m a thug!

She answered Yeah, but you get away with a lot because of the hair, lipstick, and skirt!

This was interesting in part because she has only known me in my current incarnation. For most of my twenties I wore military surplus trousers, tattered tshirts, and a black hoodie. I dragged my gear around in a bike bag, and although I didn’t wear patches professing love of gardens, I definitely dwelled within the North Portland bike punk aesthetic.

Before that I had the complete kit of a bureaucrat, including beige skirts, blazers, and ugly shoes. My hair was cut in a very proper bob and I even had normal spectacles (for the first and only time since my mother selected my first pair at age ten).

During my teens and even my childhood I was of course a fashion oddball, with a clear and inappropriate tendency to wear mismatched and brightly colored vintage clothing layered on top of longjohns despite my mother’s best efforts to make me look decent.

Throughout these switches I’ve never been more than vaguely aware of how my clothing is perceived by others. It is true that I deliberately wear costumes, but only for my own idiosyncratic reasons – not to convey some kind of message about my identity.

I’m not very good at the whole girl thing. My hair is an uncontrollable mess, my clothes are generally in a state of profound disarray, my nails are clipped to nonexistence. I’m wearing the lipstick Sarah-Jane picked out for me seven years ago because I am too frightened of make-up counter ladies to seek out a new color.

The rest of the stuff I smack on is just several layers of sunblock to ward off new tumors, even if it appears that I’m trying to look like a china doll. I’ll concede that I do paint my eyes… but I make them look bruised! Mark Mitchell helpfully points out that my shoes are too frumpy for the average nun (and that I have thick ankles; it is true, I’m a peasant).

If I’m exercising what Marisa refers to as femme privilege I do not see exactly how that manifests, since in all of my travels someone has offered to carry my suitcase up the tube stairs exactly once.

The assorted chivalries accorded ladies never come in my direction. I’m admittedly oblivious, but very few people would even dare talk to me.

When I pointed that fact out to her she said Yeah, exactly!

 

3.10.2007 care

The UK version of the book includes a reading group guide. This is of course odd for me, and hilarious for my friends. Marisa gleefully read out a question that starts with a quote from the chapter called Make-believe:

‘It would be easier not to care about anyone.’ Do you think that Bee ever thinks this, or do the benefits always outweigh the negatives for her?

I winced and asked Yeah, so what is the answer?

Marisa said You think that all the time!

She is correct.

We were up most of the night talking and I walked her to the bus at five this morning. Our friendship is based on the routines of daily life: running errands, making food, hanging out with the children, wandering in and out of each others houses. We pick it back up again when we are together but there is never enough time.

The fact that I care means that saying goodbye hurts.

 

3.9.2007 tonight

Mark is leaving the Bus Stop and this is excessively sad. Tonight is his last turn behind the bar – if you are local stop by, and tip well!

 

3.8.2007 wonderful

A woman’s life is hard
Even with a Union Card
She’s got to stand on her own two feet
And not be a servant to the male elite!
We’ve got to take a stand
Keep working hand in hand
Cause there’s a job thats gotta be done
And a fight that must be won! 
-Union Maid, as performed by the Amalgamated Everlasting Union Chorus Local 824 (we never did sing the Guthrie version)

Marisa is here ostensibly to look after my son while I dash around doing press stuff, but she also says that she is familiar with the concept of emotional support.

That is something I clearly need, as the absolute oddity of the week has nullified most of my practical skills. The other night I found myself in the vegetable aisle at the grocery store muttering What do I know how to cook? What do I even eat??!

My dear friend took over and sorted out dinner, and my kids shouted with joy It smells like Portland!

In the evenings we’ve been working a lot – I continue to toil away on secret new projects, the boy has schoolwork, Marisa is putting together a book about Rock Camp.

The fact that we each sit here on dueling shiny white Mac laptops is in fact surreal, given how our friendship started, as members of the Chorus.

We used to sing together every week, lovely friends gathered in the living room of my house, M trying to keep the raggedy group in order, Stevie throwing pop-its into the circle when she was bored, my daughter singing faster than anyone could keep up with.

There were performances around town and on the road, most notably at the first Ladyfest, when Stevie and Erin Scarum accepted a challenge to wrestle in beauty bark right before we went on stage and then spent several hours wailing I have splinters in my ass!

I asked Marisa to guess how old my daughter was when she did the solo that night and she reckoned twelve or thirteen.

No; she was nine, still just a little kid, a fact that becomes more amazing as the years pass.

Rallies, zine release parties, movie premieres, bookstore events, a Mudwrestling Hoedown, everyone crowded into my basement raiding the costume collection – I do sincerely miss the good times with those friends.

I refused to accept a Chorus name since I’ve been burdened with a nickname since birth but that just meant they had to torment me in different ways, mostly by chanting things like Be aggressive! Bee is aggressive! while I tapped my foot and rolled my eyes.

Everything has changed so much since then, in every possible way; I don’t even have a wardrobe any longer, let alone an eight-hundred square foot magical thing-breeding basement full of elaborate costumes for every occasion. Not to mention the way that life has me spinning wildly away from everything I’ve ever known.

But I still have friends, and I can still sing, even if it only happens when Stevie or Marisa visit. We trawl through the record collection and something familiar comes on and my daughter and a friend set off on a song.

I don’t even sing when I’m alone but when they are here I follow their voices, and remember, and it is profoundly wonderful.

 

3.7.2007 honor

Today is my great-aunt Rosemary’s funeral.

Rosemary and her daughter always wore their hair in matching towering black bouffant styles and served coffee and cookies to guests. She was gentle, sweet, always mildly surprised by the antics of those around her. Rosemary loved her husband, daughter, and house, and I was happy to visit when I was in town.

I feel sad for my cousin, who has buried a partner and two parents in a few short years. I feel sad for my surviving great-aunt, the last remaining sibling of a raucous crew. I feel sad that my family has nearly vanished.

There is no way I will be able to make it home for the wake. This is the first time I will be separated from my people as they drink to the dead.

The last time I saw Rosemary she had given up whiskey in favor of champagne. Tonight I’ll raise a glass in her honor.

 

3.6.2007 fractured

One night at an Irish pub in France (not my choice of venue) I was telling Josh fractured skull stories. The rest of the table stared in consternation but the two of us laughed and laughed.

When I finished talking he grabbed my head and started rummaging around, looking for evidence. I patiently pointed out the permanent stain on my forehead, then guided his fingers to the bit at the back, hidden by my tangled hair.

I did not let him palpitate the orbital fracture under my right eye; that would have been just a shade too familiar.

It was only hours later that I realized I let someone touch my head. Without noticing, or caring, or feeling anything except the bubbling hilarity of the encounter.

Until recently I would have jerked away reflexively before the other person had a chance to so much as reach out a hand.

My aversion to touch was never theoretical; it was a residual side-effect of three separate head injuries (and more than my share of fights) that left me dealing with what can be summed up as a really bad headache for more than half of my life.

If you’ve been whacked upside the head often enough you learn to keep your skull clear of danger. The brain does not differentiate between pavement, doorframe, hand of a friend – any solid object represents risk. Simple.

The first few times I travelled to Europe this caused social problems, because I flinched away from the cheek kissing custom. I was, I am sure, spectacularly rude – particularly when Gabriel took me to visit his friends in Rome.

In fact, up until I met Iain and Xtina last year, I would have done almost anything to avoid that introductory moment, no matter how much I liked or trusted a person. I flinched the first few times they greeted me in the standard, friendly, appropriate way – and then I got over it.

How? There is no special trick.

Three years ago I visited Barcelona and experienced breathtaking views, and near-paralyzing fear, following the children as they dashed up and down the stairwells of the Sagrada Familia.

We took a gondola up a mountain to see a fortress, and I suffered from white-hot anxiety so severe I could not open my eyes – and very nearly walked back down the mountain rather than face the return ride.

That, however, is not consistent with my beliefs. I got back on the gondola and kept my eyes open.

Last autumn I rode another gondola up a mountain in Trento, Italy, leaning against the glass and staring down in wonder at the scene below – without any trace of fear.

A few weeks ago I stood at the top of St. Paul’s in London, unconcerned with either the climb up or the imminent return to the cathedral floor.

The way to face your fears is simple: face them. And when you can’t? When it hurts, when everything feels awful and impossible and you want to give up? When you fail? Just keep going. Stand up. Walk out. Stare it down.

If you can’t do any of those things? Just stay alive.

Everything will change, if you wait long enough.

 

3.5.2007 thoughts

Given that three-quarters of Lessons in Taxidermy was written in response to questions posed by Marisa, it is not surprising that our conversations over the last few days have inclined toward the intense.

Discussions about life, love, and work spill across breakfast, lunch, and dinner, concluding late every night when I send her off to her bed with a hot water bottle. She has an uncanny ability not only to sense what is on my mind, but also to sum up complicated issues I’ve been pondering for months.

Where writing is concerned we almost mirror each other – but she is always more succinct in describing the process.

Mostly, though, we laugh. We also read newspapers and books, lounge around, check email, listen to music, play with the boy, go for walks, work.

Normally when someone visits I feel that I haven’t done enough as a host. But Marisa isn’t a guest: she is family.

The other night my daughter was chattering with us about thirty-seven different topics at once and at some point said I have a blog for my internet junk and a paper journal for my private thoughts.

I replied I don’t put my private thoughts anywhere.

Her response was instant: Your private thoughts are boring!

 

3.4.2007 classic

Back in Portland Marisa was an important part of my daily life. We lived in the same neighborhood, shared meals all the time, and performed together; I went on tour with her band, and we’ve done solo shows.

If someone in the family needed help she was always dependably present – she even typed Byron’s thesis when his arms were injured. She is the designated executor of my will and the person who will decide where the children live if they are deprived of their parents.

Beyond the pragmatic details there is also emotion. My daughter points out, correctly, that Marisa is the only person who makes me literally jump with joy. She is beloved by the entire family and has an intense and extraordinary friendship with my son.

I do not regret moving away, but I miss my friends. The fact that Marisa flew all the way across the world to help me this week is beyond amazing. I am honored to know her and have this time together.

Yesterday we went to Ely to see the Cathedral and climbed the Octagon Tower to look at the view across the Fens. We listened to a classical orchestra rehearsing for a concert in the nave. I showed her Oliver Cromwell’s house, and the place I moor when I take the boat out, and we walked through muddy fields watching rabbits hop in the distance.

We laughed and wandered. People change – she arrived with a mobile phone and laptop, something I could never have conceived of back in Chorus days, and shocked me by using the words “bluetooth” and “youtube” correctly. I am almost not recognizable as the person she met at age twenty-eight. But the friendship is as strong as ever.

Sitting at the Cutter Inn, legs splattered with mud, we watched the sun go down and the full moon rise over the River Great Ouse, talking about the past and the future.

Later, back home again, we walked out to the Jesus Green to see the lunar eclipse. My son ran in circles around us, spinning and laughing with delight.

Marisa said Wait – I’m in Cambridge looking at the dark side of the moon – I’m totally having a classic rock moment!

 

3.2.2007 routine

This week I’ve been waking before the birds to ponder assorted tricky questions. Early morning has typically been the end of my day, not the start, but the adjustment happened naturally and mysteriously. I’m enjoying the change even if it might be temporary.

Seeing something routine in a different way is fascinating.

Right now I’m bouncing around in a state of bliss because Marisa just called from the airport – she will be here in a few hours!

I love her so much even if I never use the word often enough.

 

3.1.2007 reconcile

The current edition of Publishing News contains a full-page interview with me that describes the book as an unflinching, beautifully written memoir of a childhood lost to illness.

It goes on to say that in person Lavender… talks about trauma after trauma in a disconcertingly cheerful way, often punctuating her sentences with a trilling, girlish laughter. Indeed, it is hard to reconcile the happy, healthy person in front of you with the life she describes in her book.

Fair enough.

This morning James was sorting through his archives and found a photograph he took when we lived in a narrow rickety yellow house on the edge of a forest.

My misplaced husband sent money, James cooked the meals, Byron gave me rides to the hospital. We three adults living in the house took turns watching my small daughter. I was recovering from the last miserable round of radioactive isotopes, and I was so sad.

Though I never mentioned it to anyone. Why would that be interesting?

 

3.1.2007 construction

Three of my friends are pregnant again, approximately eighteen years (mathematically half a lifetime, culturally an entire generation) after giving birth for the first time.

I’m thrilled for them – and I can’t wait to see and hold the infants they produce. Babies are remarkable small people. The three families are very different in terms of construction, but each will offer an amazing life to the children they produce.

The choice to have a child at any age is a serious proposition, requiring an amount of work that can never be anticipated. I respect and admire anyone who takes the challenge, particularly those who know exactly what it means.

When I look at my own children I am thankful that the years of primal need are over, that they are big and strong and independent. There will be no more babies in my life unless I become a grandparent.

I’m in awe of the fact that my friends are so hopeful and have so much love to offer. I send them congratulations and best wishes.

My left leg has finally healed sufficiently that I can go on my daily bicycle ride; my right foot has not, but I can push off from the heel and that is good enough.

Riding in East Anglia is often accompanied by a crashing wind coming straight off the Fens. The best part is when the wind is at your back, relentlessly driving you across the flat fields, nearly knocking the bike off the path. It reminds me of being a kid on the ferry to Canada and jumping up on deck, letting the air carry me aloft.

But the wind can only be at your back in one direction; riding home again it is also relentless, each stroke of the pedal moving the bike only incrementally forward. I know this, know that I’ll also have to ride with one hand holding down my skirt, but I would still choose the difficult ride if that is what is required to experience the other.

After my ride I walked out to Lammas Land and the folly, listening to an album I’ve never heard before, the wind whipping my hair up and around my face until I could no longer see anything.

 

2.28.2007 this

This is what I love about Cambridge:

 

2.28.2007 ideal

The other night at a party littered with international academics Jean attempted to quiz people about how old they were when they lost their virginity. I was the only person to answer willingly. Jean gave out his stats (if you want to know, ask him). Byron and Rachel had to be prompted but they disclosed.

Everyone else just stared at us. Two refused emphatically, then started to debate the definition of virginity, and what constitutes sex.

When you associate with people who live on a spectrum that starts with theologically imposed chastity and arranged marriages on one end, and profound decadent hedonism on the other, these conversations can sometimes lurch in directions one does not anticipate.

At some point one straight white man said You wait for the right person your entire life-

Only to be interrupted by another straight white man who retorted But you have to do something while waiting!

I blinked and took notes, but did not join the discussion as I cannot relate to the concept of the right person as some kind of ideal that can be sought, or obtained.

Last year in Seattle Jeffrey told me about his theory that if you ask people for their virginity story and they tell you immediately, it means you are good friends. If they decline or lie, he said” talk about the weather while taking tiny steps away from them until you can no longer hear them speak.

This model presumably works in the context of the west coast indie-alternative scene in which he dwells. But of course when he tried it on me my mouth dropped open in shock and I refused to answer. Though I was apparently exempt from his schematic since we’re still good friends.

Later I sent a text with an abbreviated version of my very sweet story involving someone I loved with all my heart, who later succumbed to injury and violence. What happened between us, whether bad or good, was true and I do not regret any of it.

Life is a complicated adventure.

 

2.27.2007 peculiar

I spent the day exchanging email with people to promote the book, scrambling around putting things in order, and somehow also managing to conduct an important secret conversation.

During the course of a discussion with my agent she asked about my weekend and I filled her in.

I signed off with My life is sometimes quite peculiar.

She replied Yes, I’d noticed that!

 

2.27.2007 rain

I sleep with my hair knotted up on top of my head but since I’ve taken to brushing it the whole mess slips around and falls apart. Last night it all came streaming down across my face and neck, waking me.

I swept it back in place and stretched out, blankets pulled up to my chin, listening to the rain hit the boat.

Outside the crocuses and daffodils are blooming. Spring is here, everything is changing, and that is brilliant.

 

2.25.2007 real

The other evening Rachel grabbed my journal and started to read through the scribbled notes and character sketches. Ten pages in she found a description of a secret plan that might change my life significantly. She borrowed my pen and scrawled NO!! at the bottom.

Lucky she didn’t read a recent journal that starts with Note to self: do not make stupid mistakes and repeat lessons learned before age twenty-one.

On her last night in town a crew assembled at Jean’s flat to eat tasty food and drink lots of red wine.

It was an eclectic bunch of historians, linguists, barristers, mathematicians, immunologists, and artists, born in six different countries and most of us living far from home. There were no English people present until Paul showed up at two with an emergency supply of cigarettes, by which time we were all laughing uproariously.

Somewhere around three in the morning a fabulous boy turned to me and asked a technical question about (look away now if you are squeamish) fisting; someone else needed to know about female ejaculation and I found myself practically running a disease prevention seminar.

I never talk about the fact that I have a degree in health education, but lots of people seem to sense it.

My first job in that field? Teaching sex ed in a juvenile detention facility. When I looked younger than most of the kids in the classes.

It was nearly dawn when it was time to say goodbye. I offered good traveling wishes to Rachel and we embraced. She exclaimed That was almost like a real hug!

 

2.24.2007 danger

When Jean introduces me to people he says things like (imagine this in a posh South African accent, which for the uninitiated sounds like 19th century boarding school British) Her book is about growing up with seven different kinds of cancer!

I shake my head; he hasn’t read it so this synopsis is quite misleading. Then I patiently explain that it isn’t about cancer at all. The book is about danger.

Not the danger of growing up with a rare genetic disorder and two kinds of cancer. Not the peril implied by poverty and violence. Not the ramifications of a horrific accident, or any of the other sundry things that happened in my early life.

The book details all of those experiences, but it is about rejecting that legacy and choosing to take real risks – like falling in love, raising children, finding friends. From my perspective it is more dangerous to care about someone than it is to simply stay alive.

 

 

2.22.2007 lost

Marisa arrives in a few days and she says that she is looking forward to being a stranger.

That is one beloved feature of life here that has evaporated for me. It took longer than normal but it is now impossible to go anywhere without seeing at least half a dozen people I know, if not more.

I want to be anonymous again, but the imminent publication of the book will just exacerbate the whole issue.

Jeffrey will arrive after Marisa leaves and presumably he will join the clamor for a book release party. Though he recently lost his camera, so there will be no damning evidence to post on myspace.

When I told Byron the camera disappeared he said Let me guess – drunk, at karaoke?

Yep. Now the world will have to do without photographs of us acting, as Jeffrey says, adorable:

 

 

2.21.2007 treat

My favorite part of the publishing life (aside from writing sentences) is the book tour.

There was a time when I was too frightened of my own voice to even talk in seminar; it was an excruciating ordeal to give talks or present academic work. I thought that I had a phobia about public speaking.

But apparently I just disliked talking about policy analysis. This might have something to do with my impatience with people who fail to grasp simple concepts like, oh, the necessity of civil rights laws.

When I started reading pieces of my books to audiences I was surprised to find that instead of cringing I felt a rush of pleasure. People who met me on the road back then were always puzzled by my demeanor – whether they knew me in real life or via the work they expected the somber and wary person I had always been.

Instead they found me giddy, laughing, even if I had just read a piece that made the audience cry.

When I’m interviewed journalists routinely ask if writing Taxidermy was cathartic; the answer is no. I do not believe in the book-as-therapy model. Writing it the first time was painful. Writing it again after the theft was actively destructive. The winter I ran off to Gabriel’s family homestead to work on the manuscript stands out as the lowest point of my entire adult life.

I finished it, and went through the rather grueling process of getting it published in the states, because I had a political agenda (refer back to early career in disability civil rights implementation).

Performing, on the other hand, is a tonic. Standing in front of an audience I found that I could say things I would never even whisper to the closest friend.

Travel for endless weeks telling strangers shocking stories about poverty, violence, and cancer? Fun!

I like the actual performance; it is brilliant to hear an audience laugh. But I also like traveling. It is no burden at all to be on the road, passing through towns so fast you don’t even know where you are, driving too much, flying too often, skipping from anonymous hotel rooms to borrowed couches, sleep deprivation, odd meals at strange times, meeting scores of new people, visiting old friends.

One major difference between the U.S. and the U.K. in terms of publishing is the fact that the culture of touring is different here. There are occasional events and lots of festivals – but the stateside model of fifteen readings in seventeen days spanning two coasts with a stopover in the Midwest is not the done thing.

I feel deprived of a special treat!

 

 

2.18.2007 accurate

My agent texted to say that she would be a bit late to meet me. When I replied in my standard positive fashion she wrote back You’re always so amenable. Do you secretly seethe with resentment?!

The answer is no. If I feel resentful I state my case and move along; seething is not my style.

We met at the South Kensington tube stop to walk over to the V&A for a fabulous private party with actual celebrities wandering around. It was quite interesting to talk to various other writers and several people who are employed by Orion.

Two of the folks who worked on my book shook their heads and informed me that I do not look like my publicity photographs. This is true, and generally surprising to people when they meet me for the first time. One of the women said You’re…. blonder… than I expected.

The museum currently features an exhibit devoted to Kylie Minogue and I wandered around staring at her tiny little costumes. My publicist caught up with me next to a video projection screen and we talked about marketing and promotion bathed in the glow of a pop princess.

After the V&A party ended Susan took me to a launch for the Cheap Date Guide to Style, and we graciously allowed Byron to join. He has never attended publishing parties before as he was sure they would be dull; he was shocked to observe ravishing hedonism and instantly declared a desire to change careers.

Back in Cambridge at the weekend I was pleased to hear from Rachel, who told me to buy a lot of wine and meet her at Jean’s flat. I dutifully collected up four bottles thinking it would be funny to offer such an abundance but the place was full of strangers when I arrived so I left most hidden away in my bag.

This proved to be useful as the party was still rocking long after the respectable people wandered away to bed. The extra bottles contributed to assorted drunken antics, including a group effort to make me dance. I resisted, a sexy girl tried to drag me up off the couch (sensing a trend?), but luckily I had the excuse of the broken toe.

Rachel grabbed my phone and sent racy text messages to people she hasn’t met, this time without signing her name. After she described one particular revelry Gordon wrote back to query who had been involved.

I texted I’m pure and innocent!

He retorted That isn’t an answer!

To which I replied True, but it is an accurate description!

 

 

2.17.2007 host

The taxi driver offered to get a wheelchair when he dropped me off at the emergency room but I said No worries, I’m only a little bit broken.

My injury did not even warrant a place in the examination rooms. I sat in the waiting area with my naked foot gingerly perched on top of my shoe, reading magazines that I brought with me.

Two and a half years after moving here I am still endlessly impressed with the medical system. One excellent example: the emergency room is for actual emergencies. My broken bits were not a high priority, but that is reasonable and fair.

During the x-ray I was surprised to find myself on the verge of a panic attack. There was absolutely no reason to be upset, which is probably why I started to shake. If I’d been truly ill or expecting another death sentence I would have been calm and serene.

Three hours after triage my prediction was proved true; the doctor said that no intervention was required but told me to rest and keep the broken toe elevated.

I interpreted this to mean Spend several days dragging recalcitrant children out to see cultural attractions.

I took the visiting teenager to London and showed him Covent Garden, Carnaby Street, the slides at the Tate Modern, the Tower of London, and the desk Marx used at the British Library Reading Room.

The boy is obsessed with Napoleon so we checked out the military tributes and crypt at St. Paul’s. I hobbled up the five hundred odd steps to see the Whispering Gallery and the view from the dome. The tricky bit was getting back down again – the broken toe provided a challenge but worse yet, the wind kept whipping up my skirt. The injury itself is proof of my lack of coordination; it is surprising that I survived the descent down perilous stairs half-hopping, two hands holding my clothing in place.

It would take more than a broken bone to prevent me from fulfilling my duties as a host.

 

 

2.14.2007 broken

It may be a contrived holiday, but personally I always loved the school Valentine box ritual as a child.

This year I’m alone for the big day, which is bad enough, but guess what special treat I contrived to give myself this morning?

A spectacularly broken toe. Yes, indeed; even doing laundry can be hazardous in my life.

 

 

2.13.2007 music

Anyone who has ever lived with me would report that I have one bad habit that is singularly intolerable: I am extremely obsessive in my consumption of music.

This takes the unfortunate form of a tendency to listen to specific things over and over. Not just a type of music, or a particular artist – I am capable of listening to the same song all day long without any variation.

I recognize and put the smack down on most of my compulsions. But when it comes to music, I’ve decided that so long as I have ten songs playing I am fine.

Bystanders might not agree, and a few have been known to shriek in rage when I hit the play button for the seventeenth time in an afternoon.

When I walked off the plane from the most recent Seattle trip I flipped through the borrowed iPod, selected an album I’d never really listened to that suited my mood, and turned it on.

Three months later I know every last word and intonation and I’m still listening. In fact, since I have a Walkman phone now, I’m listening more than I would have before.

Efforts to change this have been unnerving, and mostly include adding extra songs from the same artist. It is unfortunate that my brain seizes on random enthusiasms, though I suppose it is good that I’m not in a Rhinestone Cowboy sort of mood.

This winter will forever be connected to a specific album I never approved of in the first place.

Spring is imminent. I need to find some new music.

 

 

2.12.2007 ducts

Tonight over a sushi dinner my daughter said Tell Dylan about the ducts – nobody believes me!

I sighed; that particular story has been removed from my repertoire of anecdotes.

During the scant few months her father lived with us he did not know how to drive. Every morning I would make the trek to drop him off on base, thirty miles away, then drive home with the baby. In the evening we picked him up again and headed for the campus where I was attending graduate school, another thirty miles south. After my class I would then drive the sixty miles home and we would all collapse in various states of exhaustion.

Adjusting for other chores that would put my daily commute at something like two hundred miles a day – while still experiencing massive panic attacks during every single drive.

My lovely daughter, then two years old, only put up with it if I kept the Beauty and the Beast soundtrack on constant rotation. Even then she was inclined to break out of her car seat, so I often drove (manual transmission, no power steering) with my right hand in the back seat, attached to her leg.

The bit of the story she most enjoys (and definitely remembers) is what happened during the three or four hours each night she hung out with her biological father.

To add a piquant detail, remember that he would have been dressed in his Army uniform, he was often armed, and that the school was, well, extremely liberal.

What did her father think was suitable entertainment?

He broke into the heating ducts and took the baby prowling through the walls of the seminar buildings.

I thought this was a good use of their time, and also highly amusing. My classmates… didn’t.

 

 

2.09.2007 eclectic

Next week my UK publisher is throwing a party at the V&A and I’m sure that the whole thing will be terribly fascinating.

When I mentioned it to Mark Mitchell he replied I want to know what you’re wearing from head to toe, in case I need to stage an intervention. Then he tried to argue once again that a grey silk dress he shuffled me into at Barney’s was gorgeous.

I responded In Bewitched terms it was more Samantha’s mother-in-law than her mother.

He did not object to my stated dress choice for the bash. I cleverly neglected to tell him which shoes I’ll wear (he will not approve – nor would Trinny & Susannah – I’m crossing my fingers they’ll attend!).

I’ve been terribly remiss in reporting on other fun parties, including a trip to London to celebrate Iain’s birthday. It was lovely to catch up with Suzy and Ian from Nude Magazine, chat with Susan, and meet a few new people. Iain and I played dueling cameras:

On my birthday Sally hatched a plot with Jean to have a bunch of us over to her cottage to meet some people from South Africa. Of course everyone forgot except me, but the event was hastily organized at the last minute.

Jean and Peter shared a cab with me out to Grantchester where we had an excellent dinner and super conversations with an eclectic crew of people from all over the world. When the wine ran out Byron convinced Don to run home and plunder his supply.

My spooky ability to suss out lies was mocked by Byron, who does not believe in the concept of truth. In fact, the first time we ever spoke he tried to pass off a series of stories that had no basis in reality. I was feeling charitable that day so I just stared at him and announced to assembled friends that he was a liar.

Sally says that Byron is the devil. This is not entirely accurate, though he is a trickster. He can’t stand up straight in the cottage but he still danced:

 

 

 

2.08.2007 snow

Snow day!

Oh, what delicious words…. even if I mostly huddle against a radiator, I still feel the genius thrill of knowing that regular life is cancelled in favor of fun.

This afternoon I dug out my snow boots, last seen stomping around Buffalo NY with Stella and Al.

I miss them.

 

 

2.07.2007 working

I’ve been reading a biography of Bruce Chatwin that is exacerbating my pre-existing nervous disorder around discussing writing projects. He spent something like thirteen years telling everyone he knew about a book that was never published.

My tendency to claim that I am not working at all seems like a comparatively good tactic.

Yesterday I was rummaging around in a cupboard and found a one hundred and fifty page manuscript that I decided to abandon a few months ago without consulting my agent.

I tossed it in the recycling bin and went back to searching for my boat safety certificate.

 

 

2.06.2007 destination

Mash wrote to ask if I remember a dinner party we threw, which involved blindfolding the boys and driving aimlessly around the southern end of the county to make sure they did not guess the destination. Which, if either of us could remember, was probably an elementary school playground.

That would have been a typical weekend excursion, when we had grown bored of standing around in supermarket parking lots. Other amusements the crew indulged in were a bit more esoteric.

We forked lawns. We had an effigy that we would string up in each others forested yards. We threw dog weddings.

As David recently commented, we were extremely innocent and good. If we skipped school (and we were only caught once, when eight of us went missing on the same day) it was to go to the city to see a play.

There were no drugs, no drinking, no smoking. Sex, if it happened (and for most it did not) was a secret.

We were honors students, and we took over the International Society in order to have an officially recognized clubhouse.

Yet, at the same time, we were the social pariahs of the school – the kids who couldn’t ride the bus for fear of what might happen. The ones always suspected of wrongdoing, because we had strange haircuts.

One evening in Seattle Jeffrey asked if, when I achieve something, I think of someone or something in my past. I replied The high school vice principal who told me I would not be allowed to graduate…. and then had to retract his statement when I won more merit scholarships than anyone else.

I’m not motivated by the memory. I have no need to settle scores, and nothing left to prove. It is just that the look on the face of that small gray man with the twitchy moustache was a pure distillation of every other fight with someone attempting to exercise false authority over my life.

 

 

2.05.2007 trait

Today I was interviewed by a journalist who noted that my book betrays no hint of bitterness about the facts presented.

I replied that there are a lot of people who feel bitter about their perfectly pleasant lives. Attitude is incidental to experience. I could mope around and complain, but what would be the point? There are so many interesting new adventures to pursue.

Later in the evening I managed to catch up with Satnam at a pub. He moved here in October but our schedules have never allowed us to have a long chat about the strange experience of living in this town.

I warned him ahead of time, exactly like Don warned me, but it is hard to grasp in the abstract. Cambridge is a beautiful, exhilarating, and exasperating place to live – particularly if you come here from Seattle.

Satnam was surprised that I’ve cracked the social scene but I knew people here before I even arrived. That is one of my primary skills and a trait I inherited from my paternal grandfather (along with poor eyesight and a silly surname). Wherever he went in the world he always found someone he already knew.

During another recent interview in London the journalist asked me to describe the place where my family homestead is located – a small and obscure town on a peninsula hardly anyone has heard of – and he looked puzzled and finally interrupted to ask for the name.

But I have family there, he said. There is a street named after my family.

I blinked in astonishment and replied So, we might be …. cousins?

 

 

2.04.2007 clone

Several people have inquired why I will be traveling so much when I claimed that I would not do so this year. The answer is simple: I’m restricting myself to ten weeks on the road. While that may sound like a long time, it is a drastic reduction from what I’ve grown used to. That is why California in June is a temptation, not a certainty – I might not be able to work out the time.

Knowing that I am stuck here makes me feel itchy and restless.

Amy Joy wrote to say that my daughter looks exactly like the photo of me at seventeen, if the girl were the sort to brood. This is true – she is my physical clone. The only contribution from her biological father is the fact that she is the first person in my entire extended family who does not have pale blue eyes.

This means that, if anyone gets recognized when the book comes out, it will be my adorable youngster. She is much more capable of handling the attention; in fact, I would send her out to do the press if I could. Her capacity for chit-chat is in fact legendary.

 

 

2.03.2007 quiz

The other night I accidentally went to the Granta on quiz night. I didn’t play but could not resist whispering answers to the strangers at the table next to me as they did not know basic facts such as the last name of the Angie immortalized in the Rolling Stones song, or how many members formed Sister Sledge.

My primary talent is the acquisition of trivial knowledge.

Spring is filling up – a teenage visitor arrives from Seattle any day. Rachel will be back in town for awhile, Marisa will be here in early March. Jeffrey might visit after that, and Gordon has asked if I’ll be around immediately after. Eli is talking about stopping by on her way to perform in Vienna. Byron Number One will be in the country on and off throughout the spring and summer.

There is a wedding to attend in New Jersey in April, assorted literary events to look forward to, and the possibility of the west coast in June. I’ll be in Berlin for part of July, and then there is the big question of where to spend the rest of the summer – Seattle? SF? NYC?

I’ve resorted to carrying a calendar around with me – for the first time since I walked away from my career in government.

 

 

2.03.2007 belief

The post today included a stern letter from the University of Cambridge School of Clinical Medicine. They point out, correctly, that I have fallen six months behind schedule on cancer tests.

My excuse is that I’ve been busy. Though if I’m being honest the truth is that I have a superstitious belief that avoiding doctors is the easiest method to stay alive.

This irrational notion persists – and unfortunately, it feels good. I only grasp my profound stupidity after the tests, while waiting for results.

The journalists who have interviewed me here in the UK invariably ask about my medical status and I reply that I’m the healthiest person I know.

This is, mysteriously, true. Or not proven otherwise, at least.

The fact that I am at risk of developing another lethal disease is incidental to that fact so I never mention it.

Lots of people need to believe that I’m safe and well. Including me.

 

 

2.02.2007 release

The UK Lessons in Taxidermy release date is officially March 21. If you tune in to BBC Radio 4 at 9AM that morning you can hear my demented squeaky voice talking about the book on Midweek.

If you are inclined to pre-order, Amazon has a good price at the moment. Otherwise you’ll be able to purchase it in all the standard bookstores.

You will also be able to find the book at every Tesco nationwide.

The supermarket version has a different cover, featuring a photo of my face:

 

 

2.02.2007 organized

Recently Scott and I were reminiscing about the Bad Old Days and I remembered that an ex-boyfriend spread a rumour that I might not know who fathered my first child.

At the time I was incredibly indignant about the accusation. Because, as I reminded Scott, I might have been immoral but I was always very organized!

He replied “Immoral, But Organized” is going on your tombstone.

That would be hilarious, though it is no longer accurate. Somewhere in my mid-twenties I acquired an ethical code, and later in that decade learned empathy.

Now if I had the capacity to feel envy I might be almost human. Or at least, I would better understand some of the puzzling behavior of my comrades.

During the course of the conversation I also recollected one of the various stunts I pulled off – a Rotating Date that featured a ferry ride and assorted other amusements, switching partners at short intervals.

Scott remembers attending, and that I ordered everyone to have a very specific and odd amount of money on hand, down to the last cent. Neither of us can recall who else was there that night; my bad boyfriend, James, and Pell-Mell for sure. Most likely Kath-E, Byron One, Buffy, all from Governors’ School, and probably Dave-E (an adult and mentor who must have been a true friend if he suffered the general insanity of my behavior and still showed up for both my graduation and wedding).

I wrote to Mash to inquire if she has any memories of that adventure but she has large gaps because of the accident – and it is likely she was in the hospital anyway. She said that she still has one of the Rotating Notes locked in a cupboard somewhere.

It might be interesting to look at the document – hundreds of pages of late eighties teenage drama as documented by me, James, Mash, Scott, David, and other people who disappeared long ago…. though most likely it would be too painful to even open the cover.

 

 

2.01.2007 strategies

January is officially finished!

The day was sunny and warm and I jumped on my bike and headed for a distant village, only discovering halfway there that my leg is not in fact healed sufficiently for such antics.

While pedaling I reviewed my mental files and decided that this was the easiest winter I’ve ever had. There were many opportunities to feel grief-stricken, but each was entirely legitimate. I was variously lonely, homesick, sad, and confused, but at least I felt something. Negative emotions are as important as the other varieties. Twenty years ago I was just numb.

One of my primary strategies for improving the winter is avoiding medical interventions; this was harder to accomplish with my mother here asking pointed questions, but I somehow managed it. Then, because I am diligent if contrary, this afternoon I started the long process of booking a dozen critical appointments.

That decision in turn led me to open a few months of ignored mail, where I found a royalty check! Spring is starting well.

The recent threat of an airline strike left 150,000 people stranded after flights were cancelled – including my mother.

Her visit was extended, giving the children a bit more time to enjoy her presence. She also graciously allowed me to run away to London for a party I would have missed otherwise.

Today is her last day, and we walked over to the Polar Research Institute to look at Scott’s last letters home.

Growing up I never imagined I would leave my hometown. When I moved sixty miles away for college I was piteously homesick for the mountains and water, even though I was still on the Puget Sound. After grad school the six years in Portland represented a state of exile, no matter how much I loved my friends and house. When I moved to Seattle I felt like everything was finally sorted, that I had gone back to my true home.

I did not want to move away from the Northwest, or live anywhere more than ten miles from the place I was born. Then one afternoon I decided to leave forever – on a whim.

Every action has a consequence. Living here is fundamentally the best plan right now. But the choice means that I am separated from beloved family and friends, that my mother can only see her grandchildren for a few short visits once or twice a year.

This is excessively sad.

 

1.25.2007 more

My mother is visiting for a month. The children had great fun with her when I wasn’t around to implement rules and regulations: they went on mad shopping sprees, bought candy they’re not allowed to have, stayed up late. They went to movies, rented countless DVD’s, saw Suessical the Musical and the Chinese State Circus.

I was extremely grateful that her presence allowed me to escape for ten days, and at the same time quite concerned that I might not do a very good job of entertaining her during the rest of the trip. January in England is a dark and cold time, after all.

So far we’ve been to all the good restaurants in town, and several in London. We’ve visited the Fitzwilliam, the Cambridge & County Folk Museum, and the Victoria & Albert.

Still on the list: Windsor Castle, West End productions of Cabaret and The Lion King, the inevitable pilgrimage to Harrods…

My mother deserves all the best treats the world has to offer. I wish that I could give her more.

 

1.22.2007 sunlight

Whenever we met in the evenings Parkinson or Josh would ask what I had done during the day, and the answer was invariably I walked on the waterfront.

Sunlight is a forbidden pleasure, something I have not experienced directly since childhood. The south of France in the winter was a perfect solution – it was bright and cold and I wandered around bundled up, absorbing the rays of the sun without exposing myself to the dangers inherent in the activity.

Every morning I visited the market at Cours Saleya and bought cheese, olives, bread, vegetables and fruit before setting off on my adventures. Mostly this involved walking to Vieux Port and sitting on a bench in the sun writing, or many hours on the beach at Castel Plage, eating picnic lunches and filling up notebooks.

There were long conversations in cafes with Andreas, and many chance encounters with other scientists I see all over the world.

I heard that Andy the Decadent Australian was in town and remembered how he came to see me read in NYC seven or eight years ago. At the time I was baffled that he was in the city to buy new glasses; now I’m the sort who flies to that city for the same purpose. I looked but never found him, never had the opportunity to congratulate him on his marriage.

One afternoon during a walk I stumbled across Josh, Andrey, and Nick taking a stroll when they should have been at the conference. I took my earphones out, wagged a finger, and said Busted!

Josh replied We’re on strike.

I was already dashing away but I turned back, spread my arms out wide, and shouted This is my job!

My thrashed leg hurt quite a lot, throwing off my posture and making both hips ache. I showed someone the bruises from the bike accident and he said It looks like someone took a ballpeen hammer and beat the shit out of you!

No injury could have kept me away from the 300 foot climb up the Colline du Chateaux to see the ruins and visit the cemeteries, including the Mercedes family tomb. One day I stopped at the Chapelle de l’Annonciation to light a candle for St. Rita, patron saint of terminally ill, but there were none for sale so I gave my tribute to a beggar on the doorstep.

Later there were candles at the Chathedrale de Ste-Reparte and I nodded at the wax statue of a fifteen-year-old virgin martyr towed to Nice by angels in a flowery boat.

I even explored the New Town and attempted to shop, without much thrill or success because I had nobody to direct the activity.

In the evenings I headed back to the hotel, admiring the yellow building on the corner of cours Saleya where Matisse lived, with brilliant light striking it as the sun prepared to set.

I worked on the terrace as the light changed:

Then it was time to meet up with scientists for a series of banquets, receptions, and dinners.

In my adolescence I aspired to be a geek but they weren’t having me; I was too strange in a way that did not mesh with their pathologies. Now I run around the planet with the super-elite of that world, and I’m not sure how it happened.

When I stumbled across him the first time Byron was just another broken boy: there was no indication at the time that he would end up having a career at all, let alone becoming a research scientist.

One night while I was taking notes about their behavior one of the mathematicians asked Will we be in your next book?

The answer is no. I like these people in part because they offer no references to my favorite topics.

There were many fabulous meals, my favorite at La Merenda, a tiny restaurant with no phone that does not accept credit cards but has some of the best food I’ve eaten anywhere in the world.

One evening I was chatting with the East London Massive about Byron’s so-called midlife crisis (which appears to have started at birth) and explained that it is actually a phenomenon that happens every two years, always requiring some major change in his material circumstances.

Peter asked So you’ve seen this happen seven times?

I nodded. The problem this time, I said, is the fact that he likes his job and can’t find anything else to fixate on — he certainly can’t blame anyone for any of his problems.

Peter considered the point and replied He would be a fool to throw any of it away!

I shrugged and said That is exactly how I feel about the whole thing. Josh and Peter raised their glasses in a toast.

When Byron appeared we collectively refused to tell him what we had been talking about.

It was simply genius to stay out late then retire to a hotel cut into the cliff of the Colline du Chateau, listening to the sound of the waves as I fell asleep:

 

 

1.21.2007 blink

I make an effort to wear clothing appropriate to every occasion. Even in my excessively dark youth I always tried – even if my failures were spectacular.

There is an etiquette to uniforms, and while I remain true to my own aesthetic I believe that it is important to be respectful of whatever circumstance I need to deal with.

Recently I’ve gone out to dinner with proper adults several times and I made an honest attempt to dress like a grown-up. It is difficult for me to pull off respectable, but I do own a few variations of outfits that fit the description.

There was one particular evening when I congratulated myself not only on my clothing, but also on my behavior. I did not say anything scandalous, did not challenge anyone on the fundamental flaws of their world view, did not inform a famous person that they were wrong and should stop talking.

I was surprised to hear later that an eminent scientist noticed my presence at all, let alone that they had formed an impression of me as stylish and jaunty.

Andreas was the recipient of the description, and he was nonplussed. He said But my friends are afraid of her – one remarked she is the kind of person who could slit your throat without blinking!

The person who made the first assertion replied There are some types of people you’ll just never understand.

When Andres told me about exchange I thought about it for a minute and said I would blink.

 

1.20.2007 hunt

The other night we were sitting at a cafe in an alley in Vieux Nice and I was telling the East London Massive the story of the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks, but various colloquial and slang terms did not translate across the language barrier.

Six of us were from North America, or had lived there, and six were from elsewhere, and that meant that half the group dissolved in laughter as the other half stared in puzzlement.

I interpreted and brought everyone up to speed, including giving Ana’s version of what constitutes a Bad Boy: tall, dark, dirty, tattooed, emotionally unavailable…. and literate.

Dino asked if Bukowski or Henry Miller would make the cut for the literacy exam but I said that Ana would find both banal.

Someone suggested that we should take Josh on a Hunt for a Wife (because I suspect he believes in True Love). I offered to be the director of the endeavor but it was decided that an assistant would be better; I volunteered Ana’s services without asking her permission.

Hunting for a spouse is quite a different proposition than finding some random boy who knows how to cut down trees.

I never get involved in the serious matchmaking that might go astray and leave me forever stranded at unpleasant dinner parties.

Peter said that we should try to do a Bad Boy hunt in London but I shrugged and said that it would be impossible to replicate.

Dino said I can be emotionally unavailable!

I replied That is pretty obvious.

Then I remembered that I was not in fact on the west coast with my own people, but rather in a European cafe with sensitive scientists.

I need to do a better job tracking which country I’m in at any given moment.

 

 

1.19.2007 scooter

France is one of the rare places on this earth where men approach and attempt to talk to me.

I have no idea what they are trying to say because I raise my hand in warning and march away.

Though this evening a boy on a scooter drove up on the sidewalk and blocked my path. I have enough language to know that he was not asking for directions.

This would officially be the first stranger who has ever hit on me, but I’ve decided that it doesn’t count if it happens in Europe because that would be too easy.

I wrote to Jeffrey and described the incident and he replied:

You are so silly. You evaluate these occurrences on an individual basis by some outlandish criteria and then invalidate them. Face facts. You are a hottie and everybody wants you. As disturbing as that may be. 

Unfair! I’ve never debated the relative issue of hotness because that is something predicated on confidence, not beauty. Even in my most backward moments I’ve always had attitude to spare.

Though I challenged Jeffrey for proof and he was forced to reply:

I do not hang out with you and strangers. And when I hang out with you, people don’t hit on you. So it is hard for me to have evidence. But I feel you have a lot of stories of “confusing” situations that just turn out to be someone blatantly hitting on you . . .

This is perhaps true– but the incidents he is referring to never, ever involve strangers.

For example: recently Iain overheard a performance artist trying to figure out whether or not it was okay to chat me up. Critically, the individual didn’t even make eye contact.

 

1.18.2007 proposal

I was reading a book proposal for Gordon and wrote to tell him that he should say his work is like Anthony Bourdain meets Noam Chomsky…. but sexier!

He queried What was your catchphrase? Dorothy Allison and Mother Jones meet in the cancer ward?

 

1.17.2007 confusing

I have many Capricorn friends and colleagues, but we mostly communicate from a distance.

Until recently Erin Scarum was the only birthday twin I’ve spent a substantial amount of direct social time with, and she always startles me by understanding every subtle subtext of whatever anecdote I tell. This was particularly eerie in the days when I didn’t want anyone to see the back story.

This winter I’ve hung out with other Capricorns and the experience has been illuminating, in part because we have a tendency to critique each other – and most people wouldn’t dare.

One afternoon in Seattle Greg appeared to be digging for the truth about my name (short answer: it isn’t my fault I was born a Lavender) and in the middle of his speech informed me that I look like I know that I’m smarter than the common people (his actual words).

My mouth dropped open in shock. His eyes widened and he followed up with Did I just say that?

The waitress had turned up to take our order and she replied Yes, you did before offering her pen so I could take notes.

After quickly scribbling down the quote I replied If that is true of me, then it must be of you too!

He said Absolutely – I’m not separating you from me before getting distracted by flirting with the cute waitress.

The statement is not entirely true. Greg only knows me in the context of the Bus Stop and he was accurately describing the mighty force field that has historically protected me from straight boys in bars. Not that it fazed him.

Similarly, Sarah wonders out loud why Rachel gets away with so much in my company. For instance, I can’t think of anyone else who would dare grab my phone let alone send racy text messages around the world.

Hanging out with Rachel is hilarious because she tells me scandalous stories and says things like I guess you get what you deserve.

I throw up my hands and shout No, you get what you choose!

Then we both fall about laughing, to the bemusement of the British people watching our antics.

I’ve always been under the impression that I make perfect sense at all times, even when informed by credible witnesses that I am mysterious. I only just noticed that I might be sort of confusing.

This is what I have observed about children of the winter: we are, apparently, both capricious and constant. We move abruptly when we see a solution to a problem. We feel a conflict between decadence and thrift but keep business sorted even in dire circumstances. We do what we like even when we know better. We love secrets. We are excessively stubborn.

How strange.

Happy birthday to all the other winter babies!

 

1.16.2007 view

I’m sitting on the terrace of a hotel room built into a cliff perched over sparkling blue water and a rocky beach, watching the sun sinking on the horizon.

For several days I had no internet access, no email, no journal updates. This felt more than slightly strange, even though I periodically retreat from the world. Not wanting to stay in touch with people is entirely different from not being able to do so.

My mother, kids, agent, publicist, and a few friends know how to reach me if I’m needed, but so far no urgent matters have come up.

During the day I walk along the beach, staring at the water and listening to sad music, not quite escaping the month of January but also not terribly concerned because the sun is shining and the air is warm and I never imagined that I would spend part of my winter on the Cote d’ Azur.

At night I go out with mathematicians and behave myself until the East London Massive crew splinters off and then I tell them sketchy stories and laugh and laugh with friends until I can barely breathe.

This year I resolved not to think about what January represents, about all the dark cold winter days and nights shivering in hospital rooms.

The distance between the past, those rooms, that view across the Puget Sound to the Olympic mountains, and this view, this day, this anonymous hotel room, staring at the Mediterranean and a clear and distant flat horizon, is immense and at the same time minuscule.

I’m the same person. I just, unexpectedly, grew up.

 

 

1.15.2007 report

Birthday Report:

There were bike lights and books, chocolate and assorted other special treats. My main gift was a a Walkman phone. I’ve never owned a mobile worth stealing before; this will be interesting.

Since it is my very own I will be able to download a specialized misery mix tape to take along on journeys instead of making do with a borrowed iPod!

Amy Joy called to sing a birthday song in Dutch. Gordon called from SF. There were text and email messages from all over the world. Byron prompted a few of my friends to get in touch, but most remembered on their own, for the first time ever.

There was even a card from my father – who has never previously known the day or year of my birth! Some messages straggled in late, but almost everyone I care about got in touch.

We went to a restaurant for sushi and I made a cake:

Later in the evening the children were both busy with and waved vaguely when I headed to the pub to see friends.

Several lovely people turned up to wish me well in this strange new age. Talk around the table inevitably turned toward the relative merits of Cambridge, and a persistent desire (felt by everyone in the group, perhaps most acutely by yours truly) to move to London.

Jean asserted that Cambridge can grow on a person if you give it four, five, six years…. Hmm.

Grow like moss? Dry rot? Living in this town is a lot like spending your whole life in a doctors waiting room.

I have lots of friends and like the place, but I still yearn for city life. I grew up in a small town and I’ve been looking for anonymity ever since. I told him he was promoting revisionist history, particularly since he has keys to a flat in London.

Byron and Jean decided to be frat boys and practiced for a good long time:

I told many of my favorite stories to friends who had never heard them before (and in the case of Coffey or Nikolai, perhaps did not anticipate the extent of the potential chaos when agreeing to have drinks in a pub).

Sally decided to cause trouble and there weren’t many opportunities on offer so she convinced the boys playing music in the front of the pub to drag me up on their makeshift stage for birthday wishes.

She said I know you might stop talking to me-

I interrupted to say Oh no, I’ll do something worse!

But it still happened over my protests.

I stood with my arms crossed as the band sang Rocky Raccoon and my friends clustered in front, laughing uproariously. I wondered if the song was a good omen or poor, given my history. One of the musicians took a photo on his mobile phone and shouted at the crowd Who has Bee’s number?

Of course, nobody in the crowd did; my anti-telephone habit is still deeply entrenched even if I have been practicing.

Jean drawled That is a novel way to get a girl’s number!

The next day my mother arrived to celebrate my birth and spend time with her grandchildren; we had a lovely dinner and then I had to dash off to London to do interviews. I went out for another birthday dinner with Iain, Xtina, and Susan.

Then of course drinks with David, who knew me at age thirteen and continues to amuse and amaze. I showed him one of the UK book jackets (there will be more than one – that is another story altogether) featuring a photo of me as a troubled youth, complete with slashed eyelid – though everyone who looks at it now insists they can’t see the scar.

The whole table cooed over the image but I said Would you want a photograph of yourself at seventeen staring out from store shelves?

David laughed and agreed with me. Though I do agree that it is a good cover.

Dinner with the East London Massive was predictably hilarious. One of the crew hit on the waitress, who invented a boyfriend on the spot. We took bets on her accent and nobody guessed correctly: Baltimore! I put my hands on my cheeks and said Lots of my favorite people live there. I love your Christmas lights!

The youngsters kept ordering alcohol in sets of three – wine, beer, and cocktails. I am too wise for such antics but somehow they managed to get me to drink two glasses of something orange, on the pretext of toasting….. whatever we’re celebrating this week.

At four in the morning I crawled into a hotel bed, knowing that I would have to be in a taxi dashing to the airport at six – and that I had not yet packed.

Now I’m in the south of France with no plans to do anything at all for an entire week. Holidays have never suited me but I have high hopes that I can learn.

This birthday was the twenty-fourth anniversary of my terminal cancer diagnosis.

I am so incredibly lucky.

 

 

1.13.2007 explanation

One evening my grown-up child said in passing I don’t know why you get all the cool friends. You don’t even try and they flock to you!

I facetiously asserted that it might be my charm and social graces but she knows that I have only vestigial skills and just rolled her eyes. I asked her to expound on the subject.

You just want me to say more inflammatory things so you can write it down. It isn’t hard to get in that notebook if I’m being rude!

True. But I coaxed her for an explanation of how I manage to know so many people. She continued:

You are a good planner – a pillar of hope. You are a hot mama and lots of people want to sleep with you. You are very self-confident and people are drawn to that. You are loud and talkative with people you know, and quiet and mysterious with everyone else. You are the kind of person people want to get close to.

I argued that I am in fact prickly and difficult and she replied If you were a teacher at my school all the kids would love you. Even if you were mean!

She is the only person who was honest enough to admit that the most recent cancer scar aged my face by five years. I suppose that her points might be valid – even though they do not reflect the version of myself playing in my own head. I’ll have to ponder her comments.

Then we were bored and wandered into the city centre to take photographs of British food we find puzzling:

 

 

1.12.2007 charming

Last night I met David at Quaglinos for drinks. We told many scathing stories of the Green Hell (as Mash always called the area of the county where we grew up). He can’t really pronounce the name of his own hometown after something like thirteen years in the UK; nowadays it sounds like Ooh-la-la on his tongue.

The other people at the table laughed in wonderment, asserting more than once that the tales could not possibly be true. But they are.

At some point I spread my arms and said We weren’t raised for this – meaning not only the fancy bar, or swanky hotels, or travels through Europe. Not just the material security, fantastic jobs, wild adventures.

David said We weren’t raised to have aspirations.

This is true; we were not even told there was something elsewhere to desire.

Later in the midst of one of my more cracked anecdotes I tossed off the aside That was before I decided to be friendly, charming, and have feelings and one of my companions stopped me.

That, he said, should be the title of your next book!

 

 

1.10.2007 lucky

This week I have the first UK interviews for the book, leading to a predictable fashion emergency. My agent said that I should wear my lucky dress (even for phone interviews). Iain seconded the vote for that dress, or anything with cleavage:

I was still dithering but Mark Mitchell said Wear a dress you silly lady. They are your trademark.

Since he has mighty style powers I followed his advice, pulling out the green dress Sheila chose for me last summer:

Why I need a committee to organize an outfit is a mystery, and also a new phenomenon. I’ve never allowed anyone to influence my costume choices, let alone shop with me, fuss over me in a dressing room, or select my wardrobe. My mother reports I never even let her choose my clothes as an infant.

 

 

1.08.2007 vow

The other night Byron asked Did you expect to live this long?

I replied Of course not. Did you think I would?

Byron: No.

Me: Really?

Byron: Nope.

The phone rang at the stroke of midnight and birthday wishes continue to arrive from near and far.

I’m now officially thirty-six, a number with a square root!

 

 

1.05.2007 package

A package from Ana just arrived! I think that it was meant for Christmas but nobody ever remembers my birthday so I’ll save the presents to open on Sunday.

The note inside read in part This paltry present is my attempt to thank you for all that you have done for me — the recommendation letter, Seattle, etc…. Did I tell you the title of my next novella is Triple XXXmas?

Our hunt for bad boys and lumberjacks was hilarious; I would not have predicted that so many interesting friendships and projects would be derived from that strange week.

 

 

1.04.2007 inevitable

Recently one of my motorist friends realized that I have assorted bad habits related to bicycling and extracted a promise that I would rectify my wicked ways. I put off any changes until this weekend as I predict that my birthday presents will all be cycling related.

But the pledge did haunt me, and I noticed various things: I cycle fast on slippery surfaces, cycle when fog and rain mist my glasses and obscure the landscape, cycle at night dressed all in black without lights (or a bell).

My pragmatic brain evaluated the risk and realized that an accident was imminent. Though I was also extremely impressed that I have evolved from fearful to fearless. I am now my father’s daughter, reckless beyond reason.

This afternoon I was waiting to meet my kid and pondering the whole issue of bike safety. When the boy arrived I greeted him and turned to wheel away, not noticing that my left leg was next to a short wooden boundary post.

The spikes on my pedal caught the back of my leg, the post the front, and the velocity of the bicycle moving started a precipitous tumble face first into the road.

My mind raced through potential injuries and definite humiliation and I threw my body backwards, hyper-extending my knee and gouging the lower leg between metal and wood.

At least I didn’t fall.

The fact that I very calmly continued the journey indicated that the injury was serious. I never react to physical pain.

I couldn’t tell for a few hours if the bone was broken, but decided that if it bore weight there was no reason to go to the hospital. My uneducated self-diagnosis is that I ripped some muscles and probably sprained my ankle.

My knee is making this very interesting grinding sound whenever I move. I didn’t quite know what to do but then remembered the advice of various people over the years, and started popping Arnica.

It is difficult to scramble up and down a steep riverbank when one leg is not cooperating.

Funny that my inevitable cycling accident happened in daylight, while walking down a sidewalk.

 

 

1.03.2007 schedules

Today I had a highly amusing telephone conversation with Byron, who is attempting to sort out a travel schedule that is growing ever more complex.

I am only responsible for my kid fifty percent of the time, and all of the spring has been strictly blocked off for my work. Byron has to somehow figure out childcare so he can go to Paris, Zurich, and Seattle. Not to mention hosting all of the visiting researchers.

I predict it will be quite difficult for him to pull this one off.

Mark Mitchell has been trying to tempt me back to the states but I really do need to be here for the book launch and various interesting literary events.

Though I just bought tickets to go to the French Riviera in an attempt to escape this terrible dark month, because that will be my last opportunity to leave the country until NYC in April. Knowing that I am stuck here for a long stretch of time makes me feel claustrophobic.

I’m just a working class kid from a sketchy small town. I really do not know how all of this happened.

 

 

1.02.2007 depression

Walking through the city centre we encountered a friend who did not come to Thanksgiving because he was felled by seasonal depression. He reported that he feels much better now; his run of bad luck is in the early winter, when it is darker around here.

Byron pointed to me and merrily said She is just starting – sometimes it gets so bad she is suicidal!

It is true: I am grief-stricken this time of the year. I’ve done everything possible to fix the problem, and I am substantially less moody than past years, but winter is not my season.

There is a physical element, as cold weather is literally intolerable. My body shuts down at a certain temperature and I can’t recover unless I take very hot baths, which isn’t possible on the boat. I can’t fly away to a hot climate because of course sunlight is forbidden (summer is also a treacherous season, but at least I can go out at night).

However: I don’t really mind the crushing sadness, as I often figure out something important when forced to slow down. Reflecting on my life is not a daily indulgence in the spring or fall.

In the past this has taken the form of digging around in my experiences growing up with cancer. For some reason this winter is all about relationships, and the various ways that I have failed to understand commonplace reality.

Another change this year is that various friends have written to check on me, and a few have even called – and I have been talking about my feelings. This is a new phenomenon as I have never been surrounded by people who tried to take care of me, or if anyone tried I flatly rejected the overture.

Instead I always chose confidants who expected and reinforced my toughness. One example: Byron, while rock solid in all matters medical and practical, simply does not care to listen. He takes the position that I should get over it.

Today I prompted him to ask how I am feeling and he replied No. You are an adult. Deal.

Of course this made me laugh.

Other than sleeping too much the main side-effect of my depression is a tendency to wallow in popular culture, which is anathema to my normal routine. Yesterday while wandering around I bought a Neil Diamond cd – and that is the least embarrassing music on constant repeat on the laptop.

I’ve also gone out to the movies or rented videos every night, which is definitely outside the normal routine. When I bought a ticket to see Casino Royale it was clear I had officially exhausted the available cinema options in this small town.

There are probably many critiques to be offered about the movie but I’ve never seen another Bond film. The only substantial thing I took away from the viewing was a hunch that the killers I’ve loved are more charismatic and attractive than the current 007.

I reviewed mental files and a few photographs and decided that my hunch was accurate. I thought too bad they chose a different career path.

Then I noticed that I had evaluated someone based on physical appearance. That has never happened before. How peculiar.

 

 

1.01.2007 wish

The evening started at eight when Rachel texted Call me!

I picked up the phone and dialed. She was startled almost speechless and then scrambled out a bunch of information about where and when to meet. That was immediately, in the town centre, and I was still in my pajamas so had to rush to make it in time to have drinks with Jean and Peter.

We ate some sushi, then walked over to Rosie’s house where we proceeded to drink far too much champagne over jolly conversations with academics and the occasional visiting sibling.

When it was time to depart for the next party the whole house followed us to Sidney Sussex, where I had an invitation to a party – though not necessarily accompanied by twelve party crashers. Nikolai was surprised but gracious and I wandered around, chatted with Magnus, brokered an arranged marriage, had a highly entertaining conversation with a town planner, and drank too much red wine.

The youngsters were extremely well-behaved, presumably because there were actual grown-ups present (in the form of professors and department chairs), which was interesting to observe.

My behavior does not change based on whether or not a figure of authority is present, no matter how critical that person might be to my career. In fact, historically I have misbehaved in those situations.

The pub down below has closed so there was no repeat of the police drama of last year. Sitting on the window sill with Rachel, the word modernity was casually used by someone or other and Anil said Isn’t that a tautology?

I replied I refuse to debate vocabulary with computer scientists!

But he requested a definition of postmodernism and Rachel delivered a swift and concise lecture, cigarette in one hand and glass of wine in the other, teetering precariously next to an open second story window.

Conversations about love and treachery caused a person who knows the country to say Life is like a road in Afghanistan. There are many twisting turns and you never know what will be around the next corner.

A Russian woman explained that in her country the custom is not to make resolutions, but rather to make a secret wish, that you must not talk about even if it comes true. I told her that I did in fact get my wish for 2006, and refrained from commenting that the cliche be careful what you wish for proved painfully true.

The party emptied out in the wee morning hours and we followed Rachel to a borrowed flat one floor up, where we met Jean and Peter, who had been drinking absinthe all night.

There was much hilarious drunken chatter and then it was time to cycle toward the river at dawn. 2007 started auspiciously, laughing with friends.

I did not make a secret wish.

Happy New Year!

James sent greetings from his new home in Ann Arbor. The card features a photograph of light coming into a dark room facing a brick wall.

He said Michigan is cold cold cold but reports he still has the alpaca gloves from the farm we visited outside Portland nearly 8, 9, 10 years ago….

It has actually been eleven years since he bought Maki an engagement ring and took photographs at my secret wedding. Eleven years since we stood on a dark windy sidewalk outside the Flying Saucer and I confronted him with the fact that after the accident he said my death would not make him cry. Eleven years since I did in fact make him cry.

We were impossibly young but twenty-five felt so old. It is a mystery how our friendship has survived so many reckless and misguided choices, but we’ve always offered each other shelter when running away from home.

For twenty years, even when not speaking to each other, even through moves to different states and countries, we have remained correspondents.

It is an honor and privilege to know him, as a person, as an artist, as a friend.

 

 

12.29.2006 blizzard

Another blizzard immobilized the Denver airport on the day they were scheduled to fly home and the boys spent a tense afternoon watching as flight after flight was cancelled. But their pilot managed to get the plane in the air – and they arrived safely at the other end, exhausted by the whole ordeal.

 

12.25.2006 day

Three different households offered to adopt me for the holiday. Iain tempted me with a trip to see the Insect Circus. There were lovely messages from Marisa, Mark Mitchell, Ana Erotica, and Gabriel.

My mother wrote to ask if I remember the year we lived in Tracyton and my father took me out on a drive to look for Santa, and all the presents were under the tree when I got back.

I do: that was the year I got my Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls. She asked if I recall the strange and funny time her younger brother broke into the house and played with all of my toys before I had a chance to see them.

My mother said it is only a day.

It is only a day. There will be others.

Jeffrey sent along a movie of him singing Blue Christmas, and I cried.

It feels like my heart is broken, but at least I have feelings.

My daughter and I roasted a turkey and made all the fixins; I think that I have finally figured out gravy. Then we sat down together, just the two of us, and ate a feast.

 

12.24.2006 wishes

An informal survey confirms my suspicion that this is the Worst Christmas Ever.

I hope that everyone who is stranded, sad, intentionally orphaned, or otherwise unhappy gets a special treat or adventure very soon.

Best wishes to all this winter weekend!

 

12.23.2006 context

Yesterday I made desultory efforts to finish shopping for a celebration that has been cancelled. Even without a big dinner to prepare there are tasks that need to be addressed; all the shops will close for the duration of the holiday and it took several bike rides to haul in provisions.

I had just settled in for a long and gloomy night listening to sad love songs when Rachel (the historian) texted. We met at the Maypole and she indignantly said that I quoted her out of context, in a way that did not reflect her extensive understanding of identity politics and queer theory.

She pointed out that the larger conversation was about how people read various social cues.

True – in the earlier post I forgot to add that the crowd demanded to see my tattoo and then took pictures of my arm.

Cambridge is not my natural habitat.

Then Rachel asserted that I am a better social anthropologist than most of the trained practitioners around here. To prove the point, she turned to Kaushik and asked him to describe my identity based on available information.

I rolled my eyes and hurriedly started to tell tour stories.

Jean showed up and there was much scathing hilarity as he said things like Monogamy to her means one penis in each orifice.

Though I won’t say which brilliant academic he was talking about.

Rachel grabbed my phone to do some sleuthing but she always does that so I had cleverly erased all of the messages before setting out for the pub, even though my inbox is pure and innocent. Since she couldn’t find any trouble she decided to create it, sending racy messages to faraway people.

It is good to have friends.

 

12.22.2006 stranded

The boys are officially stranded until the end of the month.

The little one still believes in magic, and I know for a fact that Santa will not be delivering items from the wish list to him in Denver.

I’m sure that there is some kind of lesson to be learned from the grief that made me cry all morning, but it is awfully hard to identify.

He is safe, and warm, and staying with dear family members. Missing a holiday celebration is really not a tragedy. But knowing that doesn’t make the situation hurt any less.

He has requested that I not write about him in detail so I will refrain from saying more on the subject.

 

12.21.2006 snow

When Gabriel heart that I can travel in January after all he wrote So wait, does this mean you can do New Year’s in Colorado?!

It would actually be lovely to run away to the mountain house and spend time with the artists, even if I refuse to join their yearly ritual of jumping naked into banks of snow. Though the last time I went (could it be five years ago – perhaps six?) stands out in memory as the worst winter of my entire adult life. The manuscript had been stolen, my tailbone was freshly and brutally broken, and one of my most beloved friendships had ended. I was sad.

But I replied that if I were going I’d be there already: both boys are currently trapped in Denver by a vicious storm.

My son is pleased to go sledding and says Wait until my friends hear about this!

I do not share his joy. With both Denver and Heathrow closed or impossible there is a good chance that he will not make it here before Santa.

 

12.20.2006 ravines

The other night I went out with a few friends and a mixed lot of posh young academics. Rachel tried once again to coax stories about the trip out of me, but I didn’t feel like sharing. She wondered aloud why I am such a magnet for trouble, given that I dress like (in her exact words) a boring straight girl.

I thought that it would be obvious that I wear different clothes elsewhere; the outfit for Cambridge is utilitarian and organized to sustain life on a boat. In this town my most ambitious aesthetic challenge is washing the coal smudges off my face after I build a fire.

Though honestly it doesn’t matter. Chaos finds me wherever I have friends. Cambridge is only unique in that there are so few people who fit that description.

Not content to leave the evening without some kind of story, Rachel cleverly asked me to describe my craziest relative. I delivered a long recitation about ravines and revenge, watching as the intensity of the tales made mouths drop open.

It is too bad the best bits can’t be published.

 

12.18.2006 surprise

I arranged to send surprise packages to many people, but completely failed to put my name on the box. If you got a mystery gift mailed from Seattle that has a big heart on it, that would be from me, and I send it with best wishes for a new year.

It has been very hard to keep the secret.

Since many of the boxes have not arrived yet I’ll refrain from saying more about the objects, except to offer a huge thank you to Greg. He made the whole thing happen against tremendous odds, not least of which was the historically bad weather.

This particular mad scheme has been on the agenda for more than a year though I was never able to organize the resources. To watch one of my work plans be executed efficiently and professionally over just a few scant weeks was amazing.

 

12.16.2006 presence

A couple of days after I left Venice I found out that Luca had been there at the same time. It was too bad that I didn’t know, as it would have been fun to see someone other than mad scientists. I kept tripping over the East London Massive every time I turned a corner.

I’ve never been particularly good at notifying people of my plans, and then of course there are the stalkers to avoid, which means that I often miss connecting with friends. If I made New Year resolutions I would put be a better pen pal high on the list.

In an effort to rectify the problem slightly I should report that I will not be in Sweden as planned in a few weeks. In fact, my schedule is open – all requests for my presence will be considered. I can go almost anywhere…. but I have to be in France later in the month.

 

 

12.15.2006 mail

Normally the only thing in my post box is a bill addressed to the former occupant. But today I was very pleased to pick up a whole stack of stuff, including a zine from China, a mystery package, and a letter from my agent that reads in part: I would recommend you attach this to the original agreement – if I didn’t know you had already lost it!

That was an excellent guess on her part.

Back on the boat I opened the package to find a hamper of organic treats from my UK publisher. How surprising; working with a big press offers many interesting new experiences. I can’t even depend on my US publishers to send royalty statements!

In a less desirable turn of events, I am homesick and lonely. I would like to poke these feelings with a sharp stick.

 

12.14.2006 overdue

Prompted by my mother, who can sense these things even from another continent, I have performed the obligatory winter survey of my medical status. The results show that I am:

Three months overdue for tests to detect a swift and lethal cancer that has no symptoms.

Six months overdue for gene sequencing.

One year overdue for maintenance blood tests to calibrate cancer suppressive drugs.

Two years overdue for the follow-up appointment after the last biopsy.

Not because of waiting lists or referrals; oh no. I made the appointments and then elected to run away to Seattle.

And, the best yet: I have completely failed to schedule the high-tech non-NHS cancer screening that I already paid for.

If I bothered to open the letters from the clinics I could presumably come up with a few more examples.

I’m not tempted.

The only reasonably grown-up thing I’ve managed to do is to refill my prescriptions before the chemist went on holiday.

 

 

12.12.2006 cruel

A few days ago my agent wrote and asked if I wanted to play The Cruel Game. I didn’t even hesitate before saying yes.

When I mentioned the matter in passing to Gabriel he was astonished. He wrote back Ahh… the agent has it in for you. Wish I could see that.

I was puzzled and explained the question to Byron. He stared at me in shock and then said Bee. That is the sort of event you would never in a million years attend!

Later while talking to James I mentioned one of my new research projects and he asked Whyever would you do that? With the emphasis on you.

The people I’ve known longest are in agreement that I have in fact changed in fundamental ways… and I’ve been trying to figure out when it happened.

Tonight I went looking for something in my email and stumbled across traces of a painful, stupid incident that nearly made me walk away from a valued friend last year. I did not understand why the person in question betrayed a trust, hurting me as they pursued something they wanted. For once I asked. The answer read like this:

People are not nice. No-one is. Except you perhaps. You look out for the sick & needy. You are very stern but also very fair with people who are in trouble. You would not allow someone to take advantage of you, but you are also quite kind. Other people are not this way. I’m sorry.

This was offered as an apology but more significantly as a justification.

Interpretation: my ethical code was cited as the reason why someone could choose to be destructive. They knew my reaction would always be fair. I would see every side of the issue, and I would give advice and material assistance, without considering my own needs. Or I would cut and run. My desire to avoid conflict was ascendant.

All too true. In the past I would have either fixed the underlying problem, or stopped talking to the person, either way secure in the certainty of my judgment. But last year I realized that would just confirm the prediction.

Instead, I decided that nice was boring.

 

12.11.2006 categorical

The other night I was telling a whimsical anecdote to some people at a pub when this academic type  of fellow interrupted to ask a question that was at best off topic.

Rachel said she doesn’t answer those!

He was confused and I had to say explicitly I do not answer any questions about my identity.

He furrowed his brow and said None?

None.

So if I ask you if you are a woman, would you answer?

No.

He shook his head and I went back to telling my story.

The truth is I do not answer any categorical questions if I can avoid it – not about my occupation, offspring, orientation, education, relationship status, political affiliations, hometown, or name. I’ll talk about any and all of those subjects – but never in a way that allows an audience to apply a tidy label to my life.

Or rather, people are welcome to believe what they like; I refuse to provide the definition.

There are many reasons for this stance, from the smart (a desire to avoid sketchy people from my past) to the pathological (my love of secrets is perhaps not the healthiest aspect of my character).

 

 

12.09.2006 holiday

I’ve never been particularly sentimental about the holiday season; my cultural heritage favors the macabre and mystical over the jolly.

Except of course I became a parent before I was an adult. To compensate for the social stigma I have always made extra efforts to guarantee that my kids are not missing out on whatever material or symbolic elements are required for a happy childhood.

I have always put in the time to give my kids a reasonably fun celebration including treats and surprises and excursions. We’ve done the standard tree lighting, parade-going, Santa photograph thing every year. I do not understand the British tradition of panto but we have incorporated theatre outings and the Frost Fair.

I put the John Denver holiday album on high rotation and pull out the Cary Grant movies. We have a good time, strictly according to protocol.

But my daughter is a grown-up, and has elected to choose her own gifts instead of letting me bungle the job. She is focussed on her own social life, on the dance later this week, on the world outside her home. In other words, she is launched.

If the younger child were here I would be on the standard holiday routine, but he is away visiting his grandparents.

This is the first December in my entire life that I have no responsibilities, no plans, nothing to tether me to the world. This feels strange and sad; I am tempted to listen to music that renders me suicidally depressed over lost youth. But at the same time I am filled with tremendous joy to have achieved this age, to have this family, to know my friends, to continue forward.

This month I can do whatever I like, exactly when I choose.

I’m going to read Orwell and ride my bicycle through the flat green countryside.

 

12.08.2006 hot

My daughter just turned to me and said accusingly I have a hot lady body! Why did you do that to me? It’s your fault! It’s like genetics or something!

While I agree with her that it is inconvenient to find clothing that fits, that is about the extent of my relationship with the concept. I pointed out that the world is an easier place when you do not worry what people think of your appearance.

The kid does not approve of this stance.

She tells me in great detail about her evolving experience of adolescent mating rituals, including insights like Most boys like weakness – they want girls they need to protect. Only a select few like confidence.

Then she said that several of her friends, male and female, have commented that they want to sleep with me.

I clapped my hands over my ears and hummed.

At least I know the teenagers are just chattering.

In my grown-up existence I am experiencing culture shock – a month back in the states running around with my own sort addled my conversational capabilities.

In my community the level of innuendo and double entendre is almost oppressively constant. In fact, I have always been considered repressed by the standards of that group.

I keep forgetting that lots of British people think that racy discussions mean something. For clarity: no, people, telling scandalous stories is not a proposition. Where I’m from even explicit offers of sexual favors are often just tendered as compliments.

 

12.06.2006 attitude

Yesterday I had lunch with some people who deal with the business side of book selling. It was quite an enlightening afternoon – I am intrigued by the differences between the publishing world here and back home.

We chatted about various entertaining subjects and then one of my companions (who has not read the book) asked if my cancer is in remission.

I replied I have a rare genetic disorder and two different kinds of cancer. One has been in remission since the 80’s. The other is ongoing but it doesn’t really bother me that much.

This was delivered with a huge smile and followed up with laughter – the way someone else might describe a happy adventure.

My conversational style upsets lots of folks back in the states. But the British people I’ve met take it all in stride. They nod and agree that my attitude is sensible.

From my perspective there is no other choice.

 

12.05.2006 writing

What do any of us know about one another? And what does a writer know? Writing, perhaps, breeds even more distortions and uncertainties…. The ambiguity persists. — Sybille Bedford, Quicksands

Recently I had to look through Lessons in Taxidermy to prepare for the UK release. I did not remember exactly what was included- there were a few discarded chapters and many incidental cuts, revisions, last minute additions. The final version is also substantially different from the stolen book, which is more clear in my mind because of the loss.

I expected to be mildly baffled to read the book years after writing it. I would not have predicted that the most difficult thing about reviewing the material is seeing my friends appear as characters in a narrative.

Of course I changed many names, particularly in the segments concerning my early life. Or where naming someone would start a blood feud. Several people generously gave permission for me to use their real names. Many, however, are missing.

It is difficult to write truthfully about other people. I tried to be respectful. I resisted the urge to settle scores. Particularly when describing episodes that happened before anyone knew me as a writer, I protected the privacy of the individuals concerned.

But putting real people on a page is inherently problematic. Choices are made about what to say, how to say it. Because Taxidermy is a book about danger I selected stories that illustrate certain points. What I put in the book is not necessarily the thing I remember best about any given year or person.

When I talk to Ana Helena nowadays I do not think about how she helped fix my broken body; we are too busy chatting about our hectic new lives. We meet erratically in odd places and I see her as a catalyst, someone to appreciate in the moment and learn from.

If Stevie is around I do not reflect on her accident- I just enjoy her presence and laugh. When I am far away I think about how she used to cheerfully act as my date for work parties and weddings, about the adventures around town and on tour.

James has been mixed up in my life for nearly twenty years and he says I am not a fiction writer because I am obsessed with the truth. He points out that I have always needed proof of the relative meaning of any given experience. He is correct; in the past I always walked away from things I did not understand. I’ve never been afraid of hard work but I always needed to know the plan. My tolerance of ambiguity is a recent development.

But nonfiction is just another kind of script – facts can be presented to support whatever version of the truth is being promoted. James is arguably one of the most important people in my life but he doesn’t show up by name in the book at all. Not because he isn’t important – in fact, he was one of the most visible and significant people in my teens and early 20’s. There are certainly stories worthy of publication from those years. They just didn’t belong in this book.

Most of my life remains strictly off the record; I do not provide a running tally of everything I think and do. Instead I write about the episodes that strike me as pertinent to a given topic.

I have nothing particularly wise to say on the topic. It was just very strange to read the book.

 

12.04.2006 preoccupied

The morbid months have officially begun. Naked trees, short days, sad music on the stereo.

I need to schedule five or six exhausting medical appointments. The weather is already too cold to tolerate; my hand is numb with shattering pain. I miss my old life and this town suddenly feels very small. I’ve been waiting for the seasonal depression to take over.

But instead of feeling low I have been preoccupied with work, friendship, watching my children grow up, riding a bicycle through the countryside. There are parties to attend, people to see.

January is fast approaching, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. But Jeffrey wrote to say I definitely think your birthday should be a national if not world holiday!

 

 

 

 

12.02.2006 delighted

When I posted the new publicity photo I received email from a novelist friend informing me that I am beautiful. I found this puzzling, as people do not tell me such things. I proceeded to check with various other people (who might not be exactly impartial) and they all agreed with the assessment.

Then I reviewed my mental files and tallied all the mad encounters with total strangers this year. I know that my clothes and hair play to a certain demographic, and my appearance has not changed recently. But I’ve been getting lots of attention from people who would never before have dared.

I am excessively confident and do whatever I like. But this attitude is predicated on the fact that I’ve never cared what anyone thinks of me. I couldn’t afford to – the scars ensured that I would never have access to the normal concerns of adolescence. I skipped both the good and the bad parts of being a girl.

I did not hear insults, did not feel injuries. I became a self-contained person who never risked emotions that I could not control. The tradeoff was never hearing compliments, never allowing anyone to say nice things to me.

Or I did not hear if anyone tried. But mostly nobody did – I looked like I would put the smack down because I would. That facade flickered on and off; some people saw me differently but they were a trusted few.

At some point this year there was a dramatic inversion of my public self. Now the defensive side is the bit that is only intermittently visible.

I’ve had a deeply confusing remedial crash course in being human and I do not know the etiquette for this new life. All of my secrets and statistics have been stripped away.

Stella wrote to say that I look good in the new picture because I am happy. She is correct. I am also bewildered, displaced, delighted. I have proper human emotions that I never knew existed. Like the ability to enjoy it when someone says I look nice.

My mother sent a message to the photographer that read Thank you, I haven’t seen a picture of my daughter (the real person) since before she got cancer.

Of course beauty is a social construct. I am no more or less attractive than anyone else. Arguably this belief is my best feature. Aside from the lipstick.

 

12.01.2006 water

Today I was working without my glasses on and something floated by outside. My macabre brain automatically thought body … but closer inspection revealed a log.

Then my phone beeped; it was a text from a friend to say that the police were draining the upper river to look for a missing boy. The water displaced to our side of the lock had all the boats floating too high.

I checked my lines and pulled out the flood poles.

 

 

12.01.2006 images

I think that I hide it well, but I was once an art student. I was trained as a photographer and printer and spent many years of my young life obsessed with visual images – my first year of college was funded in part by an art scholarship.

When I eventually realized that I would never be Ralph Eugene Meatyard I abandoned my pretensions and wandered away to study fiscal policy.

The only lingering remnant of those years is a compulsive desire to control how I am represented.

I do not enjoy being photographed by other people; most who try just get a shot of me holding my hands up in front of my face. Whenever possible I take my own publicity photographs – I shot the one for Taxidermy sitting on the edge of the tub in a house I sold a few years ago. But although I find it amusing, my UK publisher asked for something different.

Rifling through the archives I only came up with an image James took to promote Breeder. While it is technically very good and I look ok (though far too sweet) the photo is now five years old. A quick survey of friends revealed divided opinions. James had the decisive vote – he said that I should get new photographs, and offered to fly to the UK to shoot. But it was short notice and I was about to fly off to Italy and then the states.

In Seattle I explained the problem to all of my photographer friends, hoping that someone would offer a solution – because I’m too superstitious to ask for such things. I had no luck with this scheme until one late night at the Bus Stop when Zack (you might remember him from the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks) overheard my tale of woe. He paused playing a video game for a moment and casually offered to help.

On my last full day in the states I took the train from Portland to Seattle, feeling raw and distraught and unkempt, to meet Zack in an old apartment building on First Hill. I dragged along the only two fancy outfits I had available but got caught in a rain storm along the way.

He opened the door wearing pajamas, hungover and hands shaking. At various points in the shoot he blew out a bulb, blinded himself with a flash, and managed to get a big wad of tape stuck to his head.

The whole experience was hilarious and I hoped we would at least get something better than what I could manage pointing my own camera at my head.

We retreated to the Bus Stop where I told Ade stories and Zack made the first edits. When I looked over his shoulder I was startled to find that he had somehow managed take the best photographs of me so far this century – or perhaps ever.

 

My horoscope this week claims that I need to purge my delusions.

But I like them! They are way more entertaining than the six unopened letters from the cancer clinic.

 

11.28.2006 thanksgiving

When Thanksgiving arrived this year I was suffering from jetlag and a profound desire to be back in Seattle. I felt perplexed and melancholy but cooked for two days and nights.

My son made the cranberry sauce, my daughter the pie crust. The doorbell kept ringing as I basted a turkey so enormous the oven door almost did not close.

Jean didn’t have the address of the party and called my agent, then Rachel in Canada, finally fetching up at Bacchanalia, where the proprietor kindly directed him to the correct door. Expeditions were mounted to collect various other lost guests.

Iain, Xtina, Susan, and Amanda all came from London. The usual crew of Cambridge people descended, some with brand new small children to admire. Sally brought flowers. Karen brought sake. Don appeared with whiskey. Others brought copious amounts of wine.

My daughter delivered a ringing monologue about sex education ending with the proclamation that she has no plans to participate in such activities. Later she gleefully discussed her opinions and concerns around dating with a crew of sarcastic grown-ups – an interrogation that no other teen of my acquaintance would survive, let alone enjoy. Yet she revels in the attention.

Those of us who feel that Cambridge does not meet our social needs chatted about the subject. Don objected when I said that this city isn’t worth the investment of my time – even though he was the most outspoken about the fact that I would not find the place congenial.

I served a feast to more than thirty people I sincerely like, then ran out to deliver a piece of pie to the fellow at Bacchanlia. My friends sat around talking and drinking for hours.

In the middle of one of my anecdotes I described what I was wearing in 1990, including the slogan on my favorite shirt. Josh recognized the phrase and interrupted to ask Why were you wearing a 101st Airborne shirt? With the emphasis on you.

He was quite surprised to learn that I was a teenage Army bride.

While I was baffled that a member of the East London Massive has the mottoes of the 101st memorized.

Jean was not successful in coaxing scandalous stories out of me, even though he kept filling my glass with wine.

I was thankful for the usual things – health insurance, family, traveling, the fact that I have good friends and challenging relationships, that I can learn and change and be loved.

I have problems, but they are at least interesting – and that is a fact worth appreciating.

 

 

11.27.2006 review

The first UK review of the book:

Highly readable, fast-flowing account of a life of fighting off death – literally…. It is an extraordinary tale. –Bookseller

 

 

11.24.2006 finger

Without trusty companions to supervise my kitchen exploits, guess what happens?

I slice the tip of my finger off, of course.

Onward!

 

11.24.2006 care

This will be the first Thanksgiving in years without Stella, Al, and Marisa.Even the move to different coasts or continents has never stopped us before. I miss them.

I flew back specifically to prepare for this feast, which we will celebrate at the weekend. I am suffering from jetlag and a sort of emotional hangover but today will be devoted to racing around the city tracking down all of the elements of a traditional dinner not eaten in this nation.

The notes from Marisa’s father about turkey preparation are still sitting on the counter from last year, but whoever will extract the giblets? Pluck the feathers, clean the bird? Not to mention all of the other work involved in hosting a huge party. As those who know me well can testify, I do not cook or clean or care. Stella once even asked if she could make a postcard with the phrase on it.

Domestic matters are not my thing.

Why then am I about to make a dozen pumpkin pies from scratch?

The whole thing is a mystery.

 

 

11.25.2006 home

On the train to Portland I sat with my arms crossed, staring out at trees and water and fog, listening to music that reminded me of every painful fact of my life. As the train passed Olympia the misery mix tape switched to something I remember hearing when I lived there and I started to cry, real human tears sliding silently down my face in anticipation.

Portland is the place where I found a community, learned to sing, opened myself up to loving people who might not love me back. The place is haunted with history and since moving away four years ago I have stayed in town for perhaps six days total. The intense longing I feel to be with my friends is never enough to pull me back; it is just too painful to know that I do not live there.

I remained in a state of intense sorrow until the first sight of the St. John bridge, when the day itself turned golden with sunshine and Marisa texted that she would meet me at the train station.

The weather held as Marisa drove me to the bank to deposit the book advance I’d been carrying around with me throughout the trip (under pressure from my agent I finally have a bank account – too bad it is in the wrong country!). We stopped on Alberta to eat a burrito and then headed to the old neighborhood.

It would be impossible to exaggerate the state of shock I feel walking down the streets of the place I used to live. When I moved into my derelict house ten years ago the street was a crack corridor. The nearby commercial district was boarded up. Now the whole place has been reinvented as… fancy. There are still outposts of the old ways – lots of the punk kids bought their houses a long time ago – but there are also cocktail bars and dog boutiques. There is very little left that I recognize.

Wandering around showing me the places where celebrities have cut records or purchased buildings we kept running across friends: Stevie Ann popped out of a cafe, Dwayne was on the hill, everyone was familiar or recognizable down to one of the kids from the Gossip standing on the corner. Marisa laughed and said It’s like fucking Sesame Street around here these days.

We retreated to the relative safety of the Chicken House, where I said hello to Jim and Ben and hung out in Marisa’s room listening to a recording of one of the bands she plays in.

We met EB and Jody, had drinks at the Wonder Ballroom, and sat around talking for awhile before it was time to go to the Scorpio Party at the 19th Street House.

I threw my gear into the nook where I sleep, changed hurriedly in a closet, and descended to join the raucous scene spilling through the house. What can I say? I love these people so much and wish I could burrow back into their lives; instead I make do with their erratic embraces. It was intensely wonderful to see everyone.

Stevie Ann, Anna Ruby, and Erin Scarum were spotted first. Talking to Maki I realized that she knows Byron Number One. I ran across STS in the basement. Erin Yanke rounded a corner and was extremely surprised to find me in the hallway.

It isn’t really a party without some kind of trouble and I had some firmly in mind before I even arrived. I was very brave and only a little bit transgressive and then Stevie dragged me on to the dance floor and a series of smoking hot girls tried to make me dance.

They did not succeed but I took up a position in the corner to watch the scene. Bob came by and said intensely sweet things to me; another girl decided to hold my hand and stare into my eyes for a good long time.

Somewhere in the middle of the night I found myself in Stevie’s bedroom talking to Beth about my undergarments. I’ve had a lot of conversations about underwear lately. Odd since my clothing hasn’t changed; more evidence that something has gone haywire with the defense systems.

The party was still hopping at four when an end was declared. Some bike punks from elsewhere refused to leave, one muttering that he wasn’t a zoo bomber before shouting at his comrades to meet at Eleventh and Skidmore.

They all started to chant the street names as they wheeled around, obstructing traffic and not departing. Several of us stared them down and they finally zipped away, except for one who had a flat and said he needed a ride. To Eleventh and Skidmore? We laughed derisively and went back inside.

I woke up late knowing that it was time to leave. But instead I called and changed my ticket, then stumbled around with housemates in various states of hangover and exhaustion (or in my case homesickness for the place I was standing) until Erin turned up and decided we should go to breakfast.

Back at the house again we all slumped on couches in front of a wood fire, idly talking. Jake from the circus in Santa Fe showed up and I felt so calm sitting wedged between Stevie and Anna Ruby I drifted asleep.

People napped or read or wandered around. I went for a walk intending to visit Gabriel and my house but only made it as far as MLK before I got distracted and turned back. I bought a cup of hot chocolate at a cafe, some water at the co-op, and bumped into Stevie on her way to pick up food.

We ate fish tacos and chattered away about everything that has happened since our last visit. Then Stevie asked So what new scandals has Bee Lavender been causing?

I tried the Who, me? answer but she just stared at me until I put both hands across my face and mumbled I haven’t done anything wrong…. and Stevie laughed and laughed.

Ana Helena (last seen in Barcelona, not the Ana from the Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks) spotted us walking around the neighborhood and stopped her truck, grabbing Stevie to run off to band practice.

I sat around 19th Street talking to Anna Ruby about life and love and then wandered over to the Palace to hang out with Erin Scarum. Stevie, Marisa, and Jody arrived over the course of the evening and we spent hours trying to figure out what to do other than sit around another living room.

Seattle people started to text in a flurry when they noticed my absence: Jeff knows me best and predicted when I left that I might not return. He told me tales of drinking absinthe, dancing with Ade, and a party that ended with blood on the walls. Mark said he missed me.

One of the Bus Stop crew realized he might not see me again. I said Portland people adore me.

He texted back We all adore you.

I said Not equally.

He shot back No, we love you more.

That is probably not accurate. Though the people who have met me this year certainly know more about me than those I’ve known for years. When I started to tell secrets… everything changed.

There are pictures of the Mudwrestling Hoedown on the wall at the Palace; I made the chorus songbook for that event and there I am in the photographs, singing with my friends. I was wearing the orange dress that shows up in my passport photo, when I decided to leave town forever a few months later. Staring at the images of my muddy beautiful friends I do not wish that I could go back; I just wish I could have understood everything better at the time.

Somewhere near midnight Bob turned up and sat with us at the table, playing solitaire and catching up. I asked if there was anything fun happening to round out my visit and of course there was a show.

Stevie and Bob and I walked over to borrow a truck and set off, remembering as we drove that the three of us share the legacy of barely surviving horrific accidents. We talked about the consequences of that – and how it makes us different from our peers, who can blithely go on tour in ramshackle vans while we twitch about seatbelts and fret about who is driving.

At the show I kept my place at the front, hands in pockets, laughing as the lead singer of Ape Shape yelled at us to dance or get the fuck out. But with Ana singing and the thump of the music even I was compelled to hop around for most of the set, only moving over to the wall and leaning against Stevie toward the end. Then Stevie joined the band for the finale and it was time to leave.

In the yard I ran across several people who also moved away long ago, hugged Ana and promised to see her this spring in Spain, then walked away toward an uneasy sleep at three in the morning, worried that I might miss my train at eight.

In other words, the days unfurled along the purest of Portland lines – like that kid said so long ago at my Travelers Party, it is a punk rock retirement community. It is where I feel safe and also completely vulnerable.

Nothing and everything happens there and the place is dear to me despite my protests that I do not like the way time and emotions are distorted in a twenty block zone of a Northwestern city. If I had a home, it would be Portland.

 

 

11.23.2006 adoration

Right after I arrived in Seattle a boy I barely knew texted and said Want to come over and make out? I always wanted to say that in junior high!

I replied I dropped out of junior high.

He said Even better!

At the time I was having the email conversation with Ayun about how hard it is to work when confronted with so much temptation. She replied Give in to temptation! I do and I’m not even in Seattle. Bust out the Halloween candy!

She told me about a friend who, years before, decided to declare Phil R’s Seventh Grade Summer. It was his stated intent to ride his bike, eat ice cream, hang out with friends, and do whatever seemed like the most fun.

This struck me as a fantastic idea. I resolved to follow the example, pursuing only what made me happy. In some sense this is how I always organize my life, but I also have a tendency to spend too much time alone and thinking.

Making a decision to be explicitly decadent meant that the ensuing three weeks were filled with wild, mad, strange, and rewarding adventures. I was having so much fun I nearly failed to document any of it, but here are a few glimpses:

The Bus Stop. Why do I have a relationship with a bar? The reasons are obscure – I certainly do not get drunk and carouse on the premises. I find it baffling to overhear people say things like That was a gnarly Jaeger bomb!

But I do meet fantastic, lovely people who surprise me with generosity, affection, friendship, and solutions to problems. They keep my glass full of fizzy water and we tell each other stories and I feel at home in a city that has never loved me.

I do not particularly grasp the point of karaoke (perhaps because my performance addiction is adequately fed by touring), but my friends like it so I trail along behind. The Bus Stop of course offers the best I’ve ever seen, with the wickedly hilarious Ade behind the machine every Sunday.

Second best is the Crescent on Wednesday, because Laura is the DJ. Highlights of these evenings include the DJ’s singing, Jeffrey not even needing a microphone to fill the room with sound, and Anouk performing Walking on Sunshine while Rodney and Zack pelted him with ice.

One afternoon I stopped at Pagliacci to grab a snack and eighties alternative hits were playing on the sound system. Looking around, I realized that the place looks exactly the same as it did in 1988. Even a morbid mind like mine cannot resist remembering the thrill of being old enough to go to the city alone, walking long distances to shows, romance and moonlight.

The fact that my youth contained even a few of those moments is extraordinary – being able to remember and feel it wash over me again is a tremendous gift.

I went to Bauhaus every day to work (and be distracted by the wireless internet). One morning while I was having a confusing text conversation instead of writing an essay Lovely Day started to play.

That song was the theme of eighteen months of my life, the track played most frequently throughout the move both to Seattle and away again. I sat listening and thinking about how abruptly I abandoned my life in the states – a decision made without any rational thought, following only instinct. The whole thing could have been a mistake but instead it was fortuitous. I am in fact the luckiest person ever.

One of my publicity averse local friends shares many of my robotic responses to the world. One day at lunch I was fascinated to watch him entrance the waitress. He managed to get her life story and dating history, reveal her back tattoo, and give up her phone number – distracting her so much she failed to deliver checks to other tables.

I spend most of my time with notorious flirts and very little surprises me but this was still quite an accomplishment in the middle of a lunch rush. Given that he claims that he does not flirt, the scenario was quite amusing. I decided not to wonder if my non-flirting also looks suspiciously like something else.

I dropped in to Left Bank to buy a copy of my book for Ade. Joy Division was playing on the sound system, bringing up a whole sequence of memories of selling zines to the store way back in the days before Kinkos, when producing such things entailed sneaking into locked offices. But those years were rather grim so I put the thoughts aside and marched onward to look for a jacket to wear over the new grown-up dress.

In the middle of the excursion I texted Mark Mitchell to check if he thought a specific purchase worthwhile and he, in a very magical fashion, materialized within moments to supervise my Fashion Emergency.

He tried to get me to buy a silver silk trench coat but I asked a critical question: what would I do about lipstick stains? He conceded the point and I left the store with an excellent black thing that was on sale for ninety percent off. I do love a bargain.

Toward the end of the trip Zack from Bauhaus was sitting next to me at the bar. He gestured toward Jeffrey and asked So are you dating?

I shook my head no but Mark leaned across and said No, it is strictly about oral sex.

I dissolved into laughter and Jeffrey wandered over to see what was happening. When Mark repeated his assertion Jeff was so embarrassed he put his head down on the bar.

Zack looked back and forth, mystified, and asked Who is lying?

I wagged my finger at Mark over his desire to mislead sweet young people.

Just before playing a benefit show Jeff told me a scandalous and totally false rumor he heard about yours truly that made me laugh and laugh. During the show he dedicated a song to me and I noticed a girl glaring across the dance floor; remembering Ana’s injunctions against cock blocking I efficiently found a ride back up the hill in hopes that Jeff would land a date after his spectacular performance.

While Mark was in charge of my wardrobe he conceded eyebrows and hair to Ade, who kept insisting that my head could be styled. I argued otherwise – my hair is far too slippery and unkempt to even bother. I’m not good at the girl things but there was much chitchat about makeovers. I insisted that all the ideas would hurt my neck, and also pointed out that my mother won’t let me wear high heels, but they shook their heads purposefully. I finally asked with some nervousness You aren’t going to make me get a haircut are you? They promised not.

At the last second I managed to arrange to have dinner with Scott and Byron Number One. They knew me at the same time but have never met, in one of those continuing mysteries of my life. Scott was the boy we went up the mountain to see before the accident. Byron went to the prom with me and got arrested with us that night. We had great fun catching up and then I dragged them over to the Bus Stop since I had promised to introduce Mark to some people from my troubled youth.

I cancelled my San Francisco trip when I was sick (even though I dragged Hiya and Jonathan’s keys all the way from the UK) and that meant that I had time to go to Portland – which is another story entirely. By the time I got back I had run out of time to see the rest of the people I wanted to, particularly those with regular daytime jobs or homes outside the city limits. The present I bought for Susan two years ago has now crossed the ocean three times without being delivered. Sometimes I am in fact a bad friend.

There were secrets and surprises and schemes in abundance and I remained so busy I had a scant ten minutes to pack before dashing to the airport.

On the way out I sent Mark a message saying that it is hard to maintain an existential crisis when surrounded by so much love. He was pleased that I noticed the adoration all around me. And I did – truly. My days were filled with confusion and happiness.

On the plane I stared out at the clouds, overwhelmed with sadness, regretting nothing.

 

11.22.2006 article

There is an article about Byron’s research today in the Financial Times. If you grab the December issue of Scientific American you can see another article about his work.

He is doing awfully well given that he chose his academic subject according to what the cute girl in front of him in the admissions line was studying.

 

 

11.18.2006 battleships

In the middle of the trip I woke up early with a bad head cold and headed to the county to see my family. In my histamine-addled state I failed to notify anyone of my departure or which ferry I would be taking; I have officially forgotten the enormous distances and expenditure of time required to navigate the place where I grew up.

My mother picked me up at the Bainbridge Island terminal and we set off to explore. The forest of my childhood has been chopped down to make way for strip malls and big box grocery stores, and many other familiar things are gone or changed beyond recognition. The gas station where I spent most of my childhood is now just another convenience store. But the signs I painted at the lumber yard are still directing traffic. The battleships are still in the bay, along with cruisers and supply ships and all manner of military vessel, waiting a turn in drydock.

I was determined to catch up with the family on this trip, and that inclination along with the coughing fits kept me in town long enough to have complicated dinners with the few surviving members of the clan.

I do not believe that anyone has a claim on my loyalty unless they earn it, least of all blood kin. I would never make time for people out of a sense of duty. This perspective is not just a quirk of my own personality; it is a key element in our family history.

The feuds and fights that have split up our crew are legendary. My people hold a grudge – and while they can keep secrets they are not shy. I am only unusual in that I moved away.

I love my family, but leaving caused a permanent rift that will never be mended. Then of course there is the fact that I grew up in terrifying chaos; I won’t be able to publish most of the stories until a few more people die. All of this makes for worthwhile yet difficult reunions. I always go back, I just limit the amount of time I spend there.

During one particularly gruesome dinner Mark Mitchel kept texting me to suggest stabbing a problematic relative in the neck with my fork to which I replied But then how would I eat my Applebee’s salad??

Normally I do not visit long enough to go on a tour of youthful indiscretions, but several days of driving around gave me plenty of opportunities to think about the past.

At age twenty-one I was living behind six foot fences with Dobermans patrolling the property. Those were the days when I thought gun safety meant putting the Glock on top of the fridge, and a baby gate on the back room where the big weapons were stored. Where most people would find pennies under the sofa cushions I always turned up knives, bullets, expanding titanium clubs.

My time was split neatly in half, with a domestic side in the county as a military spouse, and another life in Olympia as a grad student. In the middle was a two hundred mile daily commute, back and forth several times a day across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, during a time when I still suffered from panic attacks and flashbacks so severe I would often end up stranded in far distant towns.

I looked after my daughter, ignored other household chores, and spent a lot of time thinking about implementing federal civil rights laws at the state and local level.

In my spare time – and there was plenty as the head injury kept me awake around the clock – I was reading the existentialists and Thomas Jefferson’s letters. I also developed a deep obsession with the Grange movement.

Did I have other emotions or attachments? I loved my daughter in a profound and raw way. I admired and respected my young husband; he was funny and brilliant and together we were an impossibly tough proposition. KTS says that boy is the scariest person he has ever met – an insight I agreed with at the time while still thinking it hilarious. The narrative was endlessly entertaining, even as the daily reality became dangerous.

What went wrong with my love story? We were too young, and too proud, and together for all the wrong reasons. I remember the last time we kissed, at the car wash on Bethel Road. I didn’t know then that I would lose his friendship along with his love, that we would never laugh together again. I thought we were just growing up, not away.

Driving around with my mother I was reminded once again that my hometown is the most beautiful and wretched place I have ever known. The mountains loom, the inlets sprawl, and the trees enroach.

 

 

11.16.2006 choking

The first time I came back to Seattle as an autonomous adult it was to do a reading with Inga and Ariel. As we drove around town I was overwhelmed with a set of unwanted emotions – nostalgia, longing, the intense choking claustrophobia of the place.

Memories I had long before stored away came back so fast I was breathless with anxiety. Inga asked what was wrong and when I told her I was sad she offered to make out with me to cheer me up. I replied No thank you – I don’t think that will help and laid down across the back seat of the car, closing my eyes.

The problem with the memories is the fact that they are too ambiguous: dramatic and honestly horrific scenes do not stand alone. I remember rage and fear, shattered glass, the sound of bones breaking. I remember smelling blood for so long I didn’t know how to taste anything at all.

But I also have these perfect small recollections of learning to drive on impossible hills. Laughing with my friends as we did silly pranks. Swimming at night. Riding the ferry home from shows. The intense confusion and sweetness of first love. Kissing a beautiful boy on a desolate beach. Letting someone touch me.

Both the good and the bad memories have faded with time. I grew up, moved away, came back long enough to prove whatever point I needed to make. Sometimes I feel sad when I think about what was wasted, but I am never angry at the people who hurt me. I know that I hurt them just as much – and I’m the one who escaped. I’m the one who is privileged enough to write the story.

Now that I am older I can see Inga’s point. It would have been much better to surrender to hedonism rather than letting the flickering mental images overwhelm a day in the city.

 

 

11.12.2006 perfect

One of the main objectives of the trip was the purchase of clothing to wear to formal events. For this purpose I put myself into the capable hands of Mark Mitchell, an individual who has both the style and the patience for such a daunting task.

Because, you see, I am afraid of the lady stores.

I warned him ahead of time that I am not a good candidate for a Pygmalion makeover. There are too many hindrances: my fixation about colors, my abhorrence of certain pattern cuts, the fact that most clothing hurts my neck.

And, beyond all those that we might classify as perhaps psychological, there is of course my figure to contend with. Mark refers to my Legendary Milky White Bosom (LMWB) with glee but the fact is that I have an hourglass shape that hasn’t been fashionable in a couple of decades.

Our first stop was a frightening yet fascinating poke through the racks at Barney’s. The sales clerk and Mark picked out dozens of outfits for me to try on, all of which were perhaps beautiful – on other people. I rejected each mostly on the fit; even Mark had to agree by the end that finding the right thing is a difficult proposition.

If it fits everywhere else I can’t even get the top buttons near each other let alone fastened. And why would you spend real money on clothes just to hack them up again? It would be more practical (though less timely) to have things made from scratch. If I were that sort of person.

A stop at Betsey Johnson was much more promising, and there were a few nifty dresses I might have been interested in…. if they’d been symmetrical. Or made of something other than plaid terrycloth.

Onward to lunch, where I told one of my favorite stories about a wedding and we chatted and rested before venturing into what would consume the rest of the day: Nordstrom.

Mark pulled me along in his wake, efficiently sorting through the racks, rejecting most of the garments but picking out a few dozen carefully vetted choices. By the end of the six hours (yes, six) I was even excited and helping. At the very end my attention was drawn by a jacket that seemed to call my name from a far wall. Mark pointed out that it wasn’t on my list of needs but I grabbed it anyway and headed to the changing room.

I tried the jacket on first and it must have been made for me; I don’t know who else would wear it.

The other garments required a demoralizing long struggle with zippers and clasps and yielded no results. Until the very end, when the last dress slipped over my head and was…. perfect.

Mark has the great distinction of finding my first ever grown-up dress, and persuading me that I had to buy it. I will be in his debt forever.

 

 

11.10.2006 costume

Wednesday night some hours after bar closing time I found myself in Jeff’s living room pondering the nature of existence and the mystery of physical chemistry (as one does). Chatting with Ruth as our host cooked a very late supper in her honor, I mentioned something in passing about one of my kids.

Ruth’s eyes opened wide. You have children? she asked. From your own womb?

When she learned their ages the astonishment was palpable.

This reaction has been a recurring theme in my life. Some people are shocked, sometimes speechless, by the fact that I have kids. In direct contrast, people who know me through my work around the politics of parenting are often surprised (or embittered) by the fact that I travel and have adventures.

For the most part I find it easier to put both subjects off limits rather than deal with the expectations of other people.

My relationship with Byron started as a clandestine are-they-just-friends-or-what thing (my reasons for secrecy at the time revolved around the lawsuits and a legitimate need to be perceived as respectable). He responded to my recent journal about looking wholesome with this:

No, you are not wholesome. You know better.

Fair enough – though what I know about myself is rarely evident to others. Most people want to believe what they see, and there isn’t much you can accurately guess based on my appearance.

I have no fixed identity and sincerely believe that life is a costume party. Change the outfit and you can change the story itself – fundamentally.

 

 

11.08.2006 alive

During Sunday night karaoke I sat with my back to the graffiti wall, watching the antics of the people onstage and talking to whoever decided to sit next to me. Toward the end of the evening a friend turned up and was surprised to find me in town again.

We fell into conversation about our experiences with the military. I was an Army wife during the first Gulf War, he was active duty in the second. We both have scores of friends and relatives who are still overseas.

Neither of us find this background antithetical to hanging out at the Bus Stop. Though there aren’t too many people who want to reminisce about the Fort Lewis commissary at any given karaoke night.

At some point in the ensuing conversation about risks and change I said If you’re not scared how would you know you are alive? He laughed in agreement.

 

 

11.06.2005 overdose

After applauding my entrance to the Bus Stop and embracing me, one of my friends said I can’t tell if I’m really excited you are here of if I’m having a drug overdose!

The city itself, in contrast, greeted me with harsh sleeting rain.

I scheduled my arrival to allow plenty of time to settle in before the Rosyvelt show at the Sunset. What I did not anticipate was the fact that I would be welcomed into the bosom of the Henry clan, and taken along on all of the family celebrations in honor of Jeffrey.

We went out for breakfasts and dinners, shopping, and later drinking. The Henry men were friendly and open in all situations, even the late night scene in a bar with half-naked youngsters jumping about the place.

I felt like the disreputable and sarcastic black sheep little sister wedged into the SUV as the strapping Henry boys bantered back and forth in the easy way family members who care about each other do. This was in fact a lovely experience; it was a great honor to be included and to be able to spend so much time with the folks who raised my friend.

The show itself was, of course, outstanding. The venue sold out just after Gabriel and a whole crew of people made it up from Portland. Friends from various other scenes congregated; it was endearing and slightly confusing to see everyone in one spot instead of in their well defined hang-outs– but also completely genius to be able to walk from group to group.

One of the Henry brothers showed up late and was astonished to hear that his father had been driving me around. Why? Because he has read my book.

Dad approached and apologized for his driving skills but I stopped him and told the story of the day I was released from intensive care. My own father drove home so recklessly he went right off I-5 into a ditch. There are very few people who can match my father for reckless.

After the show a bunch of people ended up at Jeffrey’s house where Shannon and I went slightly mad filling up his birthday camera before he even got home. We raced around the place laughing hysterically and crawling in and out of cupboards, laundry baskets, Jeffrey’s bed, and over a sleeping Gabriel staging contrived shots and giggling over the results. As Shannon pointed out, It looks real because it’s unflattering!

The slumber party continued throughout the weekend, with various small breaks to work on top secret projects, have confusing social encounters, and occasionally sleep. By Monday night Jeffrey looked ready to crack, and I’d had perhaps five hours of sleep in six days.

To state all that differently: I’m in Seattle.

Mario made it to first base:

Jeff made it to second:

We tried to make it look like Gabriel hit third, but he is so…. pure:

By the second day the boys were fading:

And I hadn’t slept more than five hours in six days:

We had the most excellent time!

 

 

11.01.2005 luggage

I have always been obsessed with luggage. Years before I felt a stab of lust over the suitcase in Desperately Seeking Susan I started collecting bags of all sorts. Back then the best vintage stuff was cheap – the thirty or so Enid Collings purses I own cost perhaps a dollar each, often far less. I have dozens of clutches made of gold lame, or black vinyl, or leather of all shades. I have beaded bags, and bags made to look like jeans, and an original Carpet Bag, tag still attached.

Even though I did not travel further away than my best friend Anne’s house down the road, I purchased all manner of suitcase and valise, the odder the better. These moved with me to college, around Olympia, to Shelton, Portland, Seattle, and even to England.

Those that were not ruined by the flooding en route are mostly in storage but some have functional purposes, holding similarly hoarded antique stationary and postcards, cracked yet precious cassette tapes, family photographs.

For years I used old airline bags to haul my stuff around every day; my favorites were from Pan Am and Japan Airlines. When they became popular with the ironic hipster set I put all of mine in a cupboard, muttering imprecations against fashion trends.

I used to travel with other bits from the collection – the vintage white leather makeup case with tassels accompanied me on a few tours with Ariel. The round locking suitcase went to Denver and Los Angeles. The matching red set of Sears-brand (and very sturdy) suitcases made several cross-country trips.

Age and infirmity (or rather, typing injuries and a broken tailbone) forced me to succumb to modern conveniences like ergonomically designed suitcases with wheels. This was of course sad, but locating the perfect suitcase proved to be a fine new obsession.

It took a few years of experimentation to find a bag that had everything I needed: small and lightweight enough to minimize hassle crossing London or NYC, the right size to take on board a plane, sturdy enough to check if necessary, and sufficiently flexible that it could be used for all sorts of trips.

While I agree with other travel writers about packing light, I have extenuating circumstances, like the need to attend dinner parties or perform for audiences. I am willing to wear crumpled clothing, but I do actually have to dress up.

It is impossible to shop in Cambridge so I set off on the Lessons in Taxidermy tour with all of my possessions in plastic grocery bags, hoping that somewhere along the way I would figure out a solution. In the middle of the trip, while resting in San Diego, I perfected my system.

The suitcase I selected measures ten inches by thirteen. In it I can pack everything I need: a dress, three black tshirts, four pairs of tights, jammies for when I do not have a private place to sleep, an umbrella, an electric toothbrush, medication, spare lipstick, packaged hand warmers, a scarf and three pair of gloves, three books and a half dozen magazines.

Half of the interior space is taken up by toiletries – sunblock, moisturizer, potions and creams that are also sunblock. The only soap I am not allergic to, nail clippers, assorted prophylactic and first aid solutions in case of emergency (you would not believe how often friends and even strangers inquire if they can “borrow” a Band-aid). When fully packed, the bag still has room for the additional detritus I collect; mostly that takes the form of stocking up on sunblock I cannot buy in Cambridge.

The runoff and the laptop go in an ugly briefcase that slips over the handle of the first case, saving my neck and back the pain of carrying it around the airport for hours. If circumstances (like, say, haggling a dealer down on the price of antique Russian marionettes that my son obviously had to have for Christmas) forced me to carry extra things home, I could buy a duffel to check as my only allowed piece of luggage. Each time I set off on a new trip I felt smugly satisfied that I had developed such a smart and compact approach to travel.

As I have discovered in the past, it is never wise to be smug. The new security restrictions came along and destroyed my system.

Checking the bag with the toiletries takes away my wheeled system and leaves my sensitive spinal column at risk. Even though BA changed the allowance to two checked bags, my poor twitchy brain cannot cope with the possibility of additional rule switches.

Obviously, I need a new bag to check, so I can use the carry-on as a briefcase and retain the duffel option. And since I spent an exhaustive week or so stalking luggage sites I figured I might as well try to find a not ugly briefcase for daily use.

The most significant complication in this scheme is the fact that there are no stores in Cambridge that sell my preferred suitcase, and I am not willing to pay what they charge in London. Instead, I ordered a suitcase to be delivered to my parent’s house, saving myself a huge amount of money.

This means that I am once again setting off on a long trip with all of my possessions in plastic bags; though this time I reckon I will use one from Selfridges rather than Sainsburys.

 

10.28.2006 vaporetto

We baked a cake, prepared a feast, and settled to unwrap his presents…. and just at that moment the boy was felled by a stomach virus that put him to bed with a bowl at his side for the next few days. As he recovered the bug took me down; we were both still too ill to travel as we boarded a plane to Italy.

The children, inspired by The Thief Lord and A Little Romance, have long clamored to visit Venice. In fact, the request predates even the first hint that we might move to Europe. But despite this, and the fact that my trip to Italy in 2001 convinced me that I wanted to live there, it has never proved convenient to trek in that direction.

Why? Because I literally never travel for pleasure. All of my various adventures are organized around work: if I pop up somewhere it is because one of us is performing, or lecturing, or attending conferences.

But this half-term Byron had meetings in Venice and Trento and I decided we should all go. The boy and I were wan and nauseous but still thrilled by the vaporetto ride from the bus station. The girl, normally persecuted by tricky food allergies, was delighted to be able to eat in regular restaurants – until she too was taken out by the virus, as we boarded a train to the Italian Alps.

We didn’t see much of Byron but we ran into the East London Massive intermittently embarking on boat rides.  Once the three of us had all recovered, we had an absolutely idyllic time. Both children bought gorgeous handmade Italian boots; the girl (as is her habit) started to learn the language by purchasing and translating comic books. They both graciously indulged my love of ferry rides, even going along on a pilgrimage to an island cemetery where we stared at the grave of Ezra Pound as I delivered a lecture on modernism, fascism, and poetry.

I took them to watch glassblowing on Murano, telling them that two of my uncles were journeyman glassblowers before they died too young in horrible circumstances. This turned into a discussion about how, despite appearances, we are not wealthy. We are profligate. Moving to another country, traveling constantly, the careers, are symptomatic not of elite status, but rather of a cracked restlessness.

One of my fundamental worries as a parent is that my children are too sheltered, that they do not know how hard it is for most people to get through the day. While I cannot give them the lessons I learned as a working class kid, I can at least attempt to inoculate them against the prejudices of the upper classes.

My brief rant on the subject came to a halt when we rounded a corner to hear a posh British woman say My friend has one of these chandeliers at her castle in Scotland. We all agree that it is simply hideous!

We had to hurry away stifling our giggles.

We fed pigeons in San Marco, took a gondola ride (at a reduced price through extensive haggling; Byron and I are at heart used car dealers), explored the Doge’s Palace, wandered through countless churches. We ate gelatto and walked along canals and had, simply, the best trip ever.

View from the hotel room:

 

 

10.18.2006 ten

Recently my son was asked to write his memoir for school. The document starts with:

I was born five weeks early because I was drowning in blood.

It has been ten years since that frightful day. The baby slashed out of my body gasping for oxygen has grown into a strapping lad who will probably be taller than me before his next birthday.

The intervening years have seen him through various schools and adventures, singing in the chorus, writing his Lego zine, moving away from his beloved home in the states, making good friends in a new country, traveling the world. His perspective is always measured and accurate; he is the most sensible person in my entire extended family.

He is sweet, and brilliant, and eclectic, and one of my best friends.

 

10.16.2006 continuity

I am a careless correspondent and only intermittently reliable when it comes to the standard tasks required to maintain friendships; this is most clearly evident when someone has an infant.

In the year and a half since Amy Joy and Dishwasher Pete had a son I’ve been to visit them in Amsterdam exactly once. When I feel haunted by this fact I remind myself that I have visited friends with babies here in Cambridge about the same number of times – and they are just a five minute bike ride away.

I know from experience that it is hard to find community when you are the parent of a small child – hence the ten year commitment to my day job running a parenting magazine – but the fact that I know this does not make it any easier to arrange visits. Even if I had small children about the place this would likely be true (and in fact, might prevent any visits at all – my infants always provided awkward challenges in these situations). Families are notoriously difficult to schedule.

Given too many constraints I often just stop thinking about the subject. But Amy Joy is very organized and she finally managed to pin me down on a date for a visit. This weekend it was a tremendous delight to welcome their small family and show them around Cambridge. We went for walks, and lingered on playgrounds, and went punting, with our boys laughing and splashing. We talked about the past and our expat present.

During the rush to pack before going away I neglected to write about a similar meeting with another Portland friend – Lli – in London. We first met via the magazine when our babies were not yet crawling; she was the only person who braved a winter storm to attend my birthday party that year. Our children are both extremely tall and blonde, and this was true even in their toddler years. Lli and I were friends through many major upheavals in our social and work lives, including her move to Pittsburgh and mine to Seattle. The fact that we can meet and go to a carnival in a far distant city, after nine years of camaraderie during which we see each other only rarely, is extraordinary.

The fact that there is continuity between my old life and this one is quite surprising.

 

10.10.2006 cat

The other night as I walked to meet Rachel at Clare College I tripped (or perhaps fell off my flat orthopedic shoes – hard to say) and hit the worn stone floor hard. Of course, I was wearing my last unripped pair of black tights and they were shredded. This was more painful than the bloody bruised knees and hands.

I’ve been working furiously to offset a month of imminent travel but found time to do a bit of shopping in London, where I caught up with Iain. He took me to the New Piccadilly, where I watched the owner and his mates drink several bottles of champagne in the time it took me to drink a cup of tea.

At the weekend Iain and Xtina went to Margate to watch the Exodus and generously loaned me their flat. Since coming back to England I’ve mostly reverted to my uniform of old tattered black clothing, but I elected to wear a dress for city adventures:

I went to drinks and dinner with David. One of his friends asked how we met and I had the thrill of replying Standing on line at dawn to buy tickets for the first ever Madonna Like a Virgin show in 1984 – with the Beastie Boys opening.

David added And they were booed off the stage!

I attended countless concerts as a teenager, many of which were no doubt of great historical importance. I did come of age in the NW in the eighties, after all. But for some strange reason the people I met that cold morning at age thirteen are the rare few I am willing to know as adults.

The concert itself is also more memorable than any of the seminal punk shows, though for a reason I never talk about: it coincided with the worst bit of my cancer treatment, and I spent the evening with my head pressed against the guard rail, wretchedly ill.

Later David showed me one of the shops he owns:

Then we walked over to his other store, housed in a building constructed in the 1650’s. We wandered about admiring the wares until David said Would you like to see the cat?

He grabbed a screwdriver and started to prise up the floorboards:

Apparently when the place was built there was a tradition of burying a live animal on the premises for luck.

 

10.1.2006 telephone

In the week before Rachel moved to Montreal she called several times trying to arrange meetings, failing to remember that I do not use the telephone. Even though it was critically important that I answer, I simply could not – I just stared at the screen and hoped that she would follow up with a text message.

The public risk I elected to attempt at Happy Ending last winter was deliberately chosen as an effort to crack my phobia. Sadly, the treatment was not a success.

But if I hate anything, it’s weakness. There are some constraints in my life that are necessary, but others are just deranged.

Yes, talking on the telephone generates an instant panic attack. But sometimes it is important. When I realized that I had nearly missed the last chance to see a good friend I resolved to answer the phone from then on.

Of course, since I did not state my intention, nobody called me.

Seven weeks later, standing in front of the Bus Stop in the middle of the night, I told this story to Mark Mitchell. He decided to be mischievous and call me periodically through the rest of the trip.

And I answered.

The phobia is still just as strong, but I persevere. Old friends are used to the fact that I do not use the device, but Jean is innocent of that knowledge, and so has become one of the rare people to hear my demented voice at the end of the receiver.

In the states I used the cursed device to interact with Gordon and Ana Erotica. I’ve even talked to my agent on the phone about good news – two separate things that  makes me panic!

Who knows. Perhaps I will place a call myself one day.

I’ve just been informed that my presence is required at a black tie function at King’s College.

My agent also tells me that there are fancy dress literary parties in my near future.

Clearly, this means that I will have to fly to the states to buy a new dress.

 

9.26.06 festival

This morning I attended a harvest festival celebration in the Jesus College chapel. Staring about in bemusement, it struck me again that I live in Cambridge.

This place is literally as far away from my rural working class provenance as it is possible to get, without learning another language.

I ditched my culture and country on a whim; the results could have been disastrous. The fact that I sometimes sort of like the place is…. rather peculiar.

 

9.20.06 conker

It is conker season!

 

9.16.06 work

Over the course of the summer I claimed that I was not working. Or rather, I believed that I did not accomplish anything, despite the fact that I finished several interviews, published an essay, continued to whittle away at two or three secret projects, and mostly stayed on top of all the technical aspects of running an online magazine. Even while hanging out with friends I was deeply immersed in research; my notebooks are full of observations and character sketches.

The problem is that my work is only tangentially related to producing anything real and concrete. For the most part, I think. The value of any particular thought process is impossible to evaluate; it is not possible to know in advance which fleeting impression will be useful, let alone what will be published.

If I am sitting in my pajamas eating cinnamon jelly beans and obsessively checking social networking sites, an observer might think that I am not working. But perhaps I am considering adjustments to the sites I run. Or I could be doing research for a story. Or I might be corresponding with far-flung friends and collaborators, which is necessary to maintain my sanity and productivity.

I wouldn’t be able to categorize the experience if pressed. I’m not even sure that writing this sentence constitutes “work” though it would appear to fall in that category.

Last week I was pondering an essay about street racing in the rural Pacific Northwest. To facilitate the process I retreated to London, where I elected not to socialize with any of my friends. Instead I visited the British Dental Museum. I spent most of one day at the Hunterian. I also took my kids to the Tate Modern to see an installation of work by Pierre Huyghe.

Along the way I read several newspapers, two gossip magazines, started Gilead, and contemplated an essay about the nature of storytelling by Michael Frayn.

Did these excursions relate in any way to the topic I was writing about? Yes and no. While a pilgrimage to stand in front of Caroline Crachami’s tiny skeleton might seem a waste of time, I am concerned with the question of who owns a story – the participant, the author, or the audience? Dr. Hunter’s curiosity cabinet, while fascinating, contains many specimens collected by dubious means.

Charles Byrne did not want to be displayed, yet here he is, a human rendered and left to languish behind glass. Or what of poor Mr. Jefs, plucked from his grave?

I went to the Tate somewhat haphazardly, without knowing anything about the artist or his work. The first object in the Huyghe exhibition is a huge neon sign proclaiming I do not own Tate Modern or the Death Star.

The objects and films in the gallery proposed questions about place and possession that reflected all the points I was considering while assembling an essay about riding in fast cars before I was old enough to consent to the race. The Frayn essay offered observations about memory and subjectivity that were directly pertinent to my ethical quandaries in writing nonfiction. The Robinson novel contained the sentence It seems to me some people just go around looking to get their faith unsettled.

Wandering through a city visiting museums, sitting in pubs taking notes, exchanging text messages and email with friends, even staring vacantly at rivers are all integral to whatever final product I create. The fact that it doesn’t seem like work probably has more to do with my class antecedents than any true value of the experience.

I am paid to do this, after all.

 

 

9.20.06 discredited

Oh look, another discredited book: I read her book from beginning to end and wanted to get a pen out and cross out everything that was not true.

The puzzling thing is that the publisher, as has happened with similar cases, claims to have vetted and verified the material. Perhaps my experience is unusual, but three publishing houses in three countries have handled Lessons in Taxidermy without ever once inquiring about the accuracy of the content. Five or six others have published excerpts. Some of the material has appeared in newspapers. Etc.

My stories are of course true, except the name changes and the omission of a few identifying details that would distress family members. I can even prove it, since so much of my life has been conducted in hospitals and courtrooms. There are medical records, testimony transcripts, photographs of my lacerated body, and of course, visible scars.

But critically, the editors have not asked.

 

9.19.06 birthday

When I repudiated January and my birthday I gave myself an alternate day – September 9 – to commemorate buying the boat.

Boat Day was quite splendid the first two years. It is a genius time to go cruising up the river – cold, calm, easy to navigate, with migrating birds everywhere.

Unfortunately, I forgot to celebrate my own fake birthday last week.

And, as today is the sixteenth anniversary of my idiotic teenage marriage, it seems like a bad time to wedge in any kind of compensatory partying.

 

9.16.06 bollards

I’ve been away in London working (more on that later). At some point I also went out with the East London Massive.

While it is true that I know a lot of wild people, I can say without any amount of exaggeration that the scientists are the maddest. They go drunkenly leaping over bollards in heavy traffic, tackle each other on staircases over canals, break their fingers tumbling down steep hills, all the while conducting raging debates about esoteric mathematical concepts.

When I made a decision to stop hanging around murderers and thieves I thought my life would calm down. I was wrong – the scientists are often not even tethered to reality.

As Tarski said You will not find in semantics any remedy for decayed teeth or illusions of grandeur or class conflict.

 

9.11.06 panic

Today I was supposed to go to London. I was packed and had my finger on the speed dial to get a taxi when I noticed the date and dissolved in the worst panic attack I’ve had in recent memory.

What to do when irrational fear takes over your life? Book tickets to Venice, apparently. I ran away to Rome with Gabriel when the actual events unfolded all those years ago.

Italy offers the consolation of history, at the very least. All I want to do right now is stare at Caravaggio canvasses in dim churches.

 

9.10.06 war

I’ve been spending a great deal of time in the borrowed flat, which has caused me to fall madly in love with London. Though note to self – apartment life does necessitate awareness of nudity. The neighbors notice if you wander through the kitchen naked at breakfast-time.

My favorite place at the moment? The Imperial War Museum. I caught the last chance to see an exhibit about wartime escapes, which made me sad down deep in my soul. Today I took in The Animals’ War.

I never cry over anything that happens in my own life, but I leave these exhibits streaming tears.

 

9.7.06 fast

The aspect of Cambridge life I missed the most over the summer was my daily bicycle rides. Walking up and down Denny in the middle of the night does not at all compare to the wild pleasure of riding fast along the river through bucolic pastures and common lands.

This week I have ridden to Fen Ditton, Waterbeach, and Grantchester. The weather is turning to autumn – cool and bright – and I feel like the luckiest person in the world.

I was only back in town for about ten minutes before I ran across just about everyone I know – this is in fact a very small town.

So small, cows sometimes control traffic:

 

 

9.7.06 fix

I finally opened my mail. The oncologist has issued orders that I undergo cancer tests four times per year (as opposed to stateside schedule of annually, or never, depending on the insurance plan). This means that my immediate risk of developing a particularly lethal cancer is higher than had been presumed. How high? I’m guessing between thirty and sixty percent based on factors like the genetic disorder and adolescent exposure to radiation.

Golly! I feel vindicated in my hunch that I needed to push for the referral, though also mildly annoyed that I will have to structure my future travels around testing.

It was way more fun to pretend that I will never get sick again.

 

9.6.06 brow

Iain and Xtina went on holiday and very kindly offered to lend their flat. London is irresistible even if I have not yet unpacked, let alone recovered from jetlag. And, of course, I enjoy living out of suitcases.

The first night in the big city my talented and amazing agent took me out to a cabaret. Between the music acts and burlesque she leaned over and asked So, did you get a lot of work done during the trip?

I looked away and mumbled Um, I did some… research….

Byron laughed and interjected Yeah, she researched snogging!

That is commendable use of British slang, but not accurate. Since I did not need to leave town to be hedonistic it might be more correct to say that I was skiving.

Translation: Noun. Neglecting one’s duties or work.

Six weeks of decadence has drained my ability to protest an essential innocence; I just smiled and pressed a hand to a weary brow.

It is time to get back to work.

 

9.1.06 impede

One feature of life in Cambridge is the fact that many of the people swarming around do not move out of my way. Specifically those who could be described as sinister hooded youth.

Of course, I do not believe that anyone has the right to impede my forward progress. The boys who get in my way do so at their own risk. I’ve slammed three so far today.

Though perhaps they like it – I have a limited scope of understanding on the subject. I was innocently purchasing fruit this afternoon and dimly perceived that one of the clerks was gawking at me; when I made eye contact he whacked himself in the head with a towering trolley full of canned goods.