Month: May 2007

Greetings from the south of France!

The view from here:

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.

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:

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:

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.

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?

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. 

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.