I spent Valentine’s weekend at the coast with a bunch of people I love and never see, and several others I have never met before. As always when traveling with this crew (I still think of them as Chorus friends even though the musical element dissolved years ago) I felt completely welcome, and awfully out of place.
It isn’t just my clothes or accessories (though it is true that I had to borrow rain gear, and carried a Commes des Garcons bag to the beach). They all have an equal tendency to go out in drag, assume and discard costumes and identities.
No, it is something more subtle – a sense of jolting homesickness, displacement, even at the most serene moments. They know my secrets, and ask hard questions. They love me but let me go. I belong with these people, more than I do with any other group of humans aside from my family, yet I feel I cannot speak in their presence.
This is my own problem. I try to ignore it.
I also did something so singular, so rebellious, I almost dare not type the words.
Despite clear medical injunctions and the warnings of my mother, I …. got in the hot tub.
To a stranger this may seem minor but for me it is a real risk. I am too sensitive, my skin too precious for chlorine or shared bathing. I have a note from my doctor!
Rain, forest, ocean, friends, naked communal bathing under the Oregon moon. Marisa, Jodi, Maki, Erin Scarum…. it only took about two hours for me to declare I am never leaving this place.
