Year: 2007

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

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

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

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

-Yes!

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

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

-Are you famous? 

-I hope not.

-What was it for? 

-A newspaper. 

-Which one? 

-The Guardian.

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

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

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

Lessons in Taxidermy. 

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

Ooh, he said creepy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I said Oh no! Maybe you can borrow some?

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

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

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

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

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

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

They all laughed, at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They owe me nothing.

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

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

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

Furrowing my brow, I brilliantly replied Huh?

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

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

He laughed at my stricken expression and said Go on!

-Do I have to?

-Yes. It is mandatory!

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

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

When he arrived I gleefully inquired How are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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