Month: December 2006

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

When Gabriel heard 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.