Back in the UK, land of strong tea and aggressive driving! My first stop? Bacchanalia, of course. I cycled over to buy water and chat about the weather; the jolly people who run the place are some of my favorite people in this town.
Last night I aired out the boat then wandered through the city centre at twilight, once again astonished, baffled, and delighted to live in a place drenched with history and populated by such demented and entertaining people. When I am away I always forget about the ravishing beauty of this city.
The other day I was driving around Whidbey Island, singing along to the radio, thinking about performing with the Chorus, and I tried to coax my companions to remember those old songs.
Of course we still know all the lyrics to Union Maid and Rote Zora (including the German bits) but between us we could only come up with fragments of Sabotabby Kitten, Coal Tattoo, Dump the Bosses, Bread and Roses.
Finally we gave up and defaulted to Caleb Meyer – there is nothing quite like a murder ballad to round out a bright sunny day of wholesome fun! Why did a union chorus perform that one specifically? Well, we also did The Pill and My Big Iron Skillet.
Yes, it was quite a spectacle, particularly when my (then nine year old) daughter took the solo spot for songs about gender equality and sexual identity.
Now I live in a land where May Day is officially recognized, and I often forget the September stateside nod to the working masses.
At the start of the summer I took my son to the Pike Place Market so he could buy a dozen doughnuts from the same stall I remember from my own childhood. While he ate I stood reading posters for Hugo House, ZAPP, zine readings around town, punk rock yoga and baseball, Plane Crash Theatre, free bikery and herbal medicine clinics.
There were signs for countless shows, scavenger markets, queer stitch and bitch, a multi-media event at a house called Undersea Volcano of the Squid Overlord.
Through the window I could see Left Bank Books across Post Alley: the first store to buy my zine way back in, oh – 1984? Cafe Counter Intelligence is gone, but will forever be the cafe by which I compare all others – and now I know for sure the coffee was in fact world-class. I could smell Tenzing Momo, and hear the fishmongers hollering and throwing their wares.
As I was growing up the street in front of the market was mostly porn and pawn shops. Central Gun was the lone holdout for weapons, but it disappeared this year. The Lusty Lady is still holding on, but she is now in the shadow of a luxury condominium development.
In my lifetime Seattle has changed substantially, not just in terms of different stores, new buildings, the mutating face of an evolving city. The people who populate the place are different too – demographic trends could be plotted on a chart, but the larger point is, the place feels different.
I’m typing this while sitting on the floor of a furnished apartment with a view of the Space Needle ahead of me, Lake Union out the window to my left. The house I once owned is faraway on Beacon Hill and while I wish I could still live in it, I do not regret selling and moving on – I am simply thankful that I had those two years in that place, with a view of the mountains, as I wrote Lessons in Taxidermy.
J9 says that when she read the book she could smell and see the living room of that house, and I think that is the highest compliment anyone has ever offered.
The Kitsap Peninsula was my first home, and I can see those forests if I stand at the edge of Elliot Bay. I was hopelessly homesick when I moved away to college in Olympia, at the southern edge of the Puget Sound. When I abandoned my first career and fled further south I felt that Portland was a state of exile.
Brilliant, lovely exile – the place I made friends again after a long period of retreat, the place I learned to see, smell, sing, embrace people, ride a bicycle. Portland is puppet shows and chorus practice, long lazy days wandering from one house to the next, nights sitting on porches talking to loved ones and strangers.
My house there functioned as a community center, and it is an honor that Gabriel and Danielle live in it and maintain a high level of generosity and camaraderie; they’ve taken in my eldest child two summers running and I know that I can sleep there whenever I need to.
When I dropped my daughter off in Portland for her internship we drifted through downtown until she spied a cluster of typical scenesters standing on the corner next to Powell’s. She gasped and exclaimed People are real here!!
I blinked and inquired What do you mean?
She didn’t even think before replying They’re dirty! You know what I’m talking about!
In fact, I do – she means that this is the place were we fit best, where we understand what people are saying and also what they mean. Our friends here know us without knowing, an intimacy I rejected at the time but now appreciate.
The landscape of the Pacific Northwest is not just dear to me; it is part of who and what I am. Feeling crazy, sad, fragmented, alone? Just go sit on a dock, with your feet over the Sound, and all will be well. The only place I am completely, absolutely at home is within two hundred miles of the town where I was born. In fact, despite a childhood filled with trauma and horror, I love my hometown.
This is no exaggeration. Even if I choose to live faraway, in a beautiful and hostile city, my only connection with the new place is the work visa pasted in my passport.
One night at the Bus Stop with Susannah I was describing the differences between the various places I’ve lived and she asked if I was excited to go back to England.
I answered Not really.
She asked Are you sad to go?
No, I replied. I like the life I have in Portland, and the one I have in Seattle, and I like Cambridge equally well.
She nodded. So you’re happy wherever you are?
Yes, exactly – which is fortuitous, since I travel so much!
When I am away I do miss many things about the Pacific Northwest. The people, the places, the adventures, understanding what is happening around me; all beloved, but not lamented.
Cambridge is the most antithetical setting I could ever live in, yet I truly love the river, and my daily bike rides across the Fens. I’ve made countless new friends, some I would have met regardless, others I would never have encountered if I hadn’t moved there.
I’m thankful for it all, and would not change anything.
You know when you go to the eye doctor and they do that test to determine your prescription? With the flipping lenses, until you say That is it!
Living in Seattle is like that for me – everything is clarified. Of course, I prefer to wear glasses that give a stronger correction than is strictly necessary and thus have to fly to NYC because the place in Chinatown is the only shop in the world who will make spectacles for me.
But still!
Last night I went to Nickle’s seventeenth 21st birthday party, featuring countless fun friends and frivolity, not least of which was the fact that all the children climbed up to play on the roof. Except my son, who of course (and according to his own idiosyncratic desires) cautiously observed the action from the ground, wielding a walkie-talkie.
Later at the Crescent Laura held my hand over her karaoke alter and said deeply meaningful things I instantly forgot but absolutely appreciate. There were lots of amazing singers, and then another session of various people attempting to teach me how to High Five (with an argument amongst the experts about technique).
When it was time to go I hugged Sophie and Jeffrey for the last time, tears welling in my eyes. Yes, locals, it is true – I cried at the Crescent! Though I’m sneaky, nobody noticed. Lucky me friends were there to say caustic things that distracted me from the fact that I will miss this place and these people more than I can articulate.
Last night I spent a few precious final hours at the Bus Stop – it will be relocated or just plain gone by the time I get back, and that fact gave the evening a bittersweet edge. More on that later!
When I arrived David was standing on the sidewalk and he reached in his bag and said I bought your book – will you sign it for me?
I shuddered (I’ve successfully avoided all publicity related work this summer) then laughed and pulled out a pen. David commented We had trouble finding it at Powell’s – they had it filed under “Healing Memoir”!
Jody thought this hilarious and said I haven’t read it and even I know it isn’t that!
True. My cryptic little book is definitely not part of the self-help industry. Jody doesn’t know anything about my career and cares even less (a delightful trait in a new friend). The couple of other times I’ve been recognized or cornered by someone this summer he was always outside smoking, so of course he had to photograph this particular exchange.
David remarked that he is going to loan it to his mother and I replied Then I won’t write anything smutty on it!
Jody departs for Israel approximately the same time I leave for the UK and kindly consented to drive me around on errands. But when he picked me up at the ferry terminal yesterday afternoon I opened my eyes wide and said Would you like to go on an adventure?
Who could refuse? I mean, really. The fact that I would be navigating the way through Tacoma on a hunch made it all the more thrilling!
The arcade at the World Famous B&I Circus Store is exactly the same as it ever was – derelict and lovely – Tetris, anyone? My only grievance is that the air hockey console never works – not a bad complaint when revisiting one of the most important scenes of your youth.
Jody looked bemused throughout but we managed to hit not just the B&I but also the Java Jive (technically we just slowed down near it, I told the scandalous story of the last time I went there, and he pointed out that my love life has always been rather idiotic – true!).
This excursion was the penultimate expression of my sophomore summer. What was I doing at sixteen? Riding the merry-go-round at the B&I, of course! Best thing ever? Decorated hermit crabs. Then, of course, and executed strictly according to vague decades old memories, I found the Frisko Freeze – score!
I’m in that strange final phase of a long trip when there is way too much to accomplish but instead of running errands I have developed an urgent desire to go ride the carousel at the B&I store.
Now I just have to find someone to drive me there!
Last night I had a rushed dinner on the patio at La Spiga (yeah, a contrary concept, but if I want to linger over Italian food I can just go to Italy – what a pretentious thing for this Kitsap kid to say!) so I could make it to Smith for Happy Hour with the always amazing Mark Mitchell as bartender. Then it was a madcap scramble to gather up the gang to watch Superbad at Cinerama, though we’ve all (except Jeffrey) watched it more than once this week. Why? Because Superbad is super awesome but more critically, because that theatre is one of the best buildings in Seattle.
Plus my lucky dress matches the bathroom:
My kid grabbed the camera to show that it also matches the hallway and as she snapped away said Look aloof and uncaring! Sing I Don’t Love Anyone in your mind!
Jeffrey persists in asking detailed questions about my sex life even though I have staunchly refused to answer over the course of five years. When I point out that I am unlikely to change my stance on the issue he just laughs and says I can’t help it, I’m a Scorpio!
Last night I relented slightly and gave him one shot at posing a direct question, but he blew it by asking something so obvious he could have predicted the answer: a resounding No.
It was the final night of karaoke at the Bus Stop before I leave for the UK, and the bar will be closed by the time I get back again. When I pointed that out to Ade the reply was Don’t say that, you are going to make me cry! Stay here with me!
My daughter called to tell me scandalous stories as I waited in the lobby for Jody’s tattoo appointment. When she finally got around to asking where I was she exclaimed Why are you there? To flirt?
I replied No way, I’m not flirting at all!
She retorted I don’t believe you!
I handed the phone to Jody and instructed him to defend my honor, and he accurately reported on my innocence. My kid informed him that he is a liar before rattling off a string of genius anecdotes, as is her habit. When I got the phone back she informed me that I am a dirty flirt – not true at all! Though quite hilarious.
As the day progressed I texted around to Rachel, Gabriel, Gordon, Ana Erotica, my kid, and assorted other friends and a joke evolved that I would get a tattoo of a bulldog with the words Dirty Flirt etched across my chest. Jody asked the tattoo artist for a quote on the work, but I hurriedly pointed out that I know lots of people who would do it for free.
I found it quite interesting to watch someone else getting a tattoo – whereas my own felt like nothing, and I giggled so much I was reprimanded for moving around, watching the ink accrue on a friend made me queasy. Jody was also nauseated at various points since he hadn’t eaten, so my primary job aside from laughing over the spectacle was running out to get snacks.
Laura showed up briefly, Ana Erotica broke the news that she was canceling her trip even though I have a host of Bad Boys for her to choose from, there was pressure from assorted people to ditch and go to dinner and movies, but I persevered, fascinated to watch the whole thing.
Over the course of the session I also developed a true and intense desire to get a new tattoo, and some vague ideas of what and where it might be. Given the impetuous nature of the summer I was about ten seconds from booking an appointment when I remembered that I will be on a nine hour flight back to the UK soon – and I really do not need to do that with a fresh, peeling, itchy wound on my body.
Though getting more work done is a perfect excuse to come back and visit! I remained at dutiful attention for the entire seven hour appointment, until the last brutal fifteen minutes. The pain at that point was unbearable to watch unless I could render aid, and I don’t know Jody well enough to hold his hand, so I retreated to the lobby and stared at flash. Whatever will I have inscribed on my body? Should I go back to Portland, or try Seattle?
Now as I look around, it’s mighty plain to see / This world is such a great and a funny place to be; Oh, the gamblin’ man is rich an’ the workin’ man is poor / And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.
Woody Guthrie
Marisa came to visit and this morning I was up early to take her to the train station after a weekend of revelry. As we stood in Zeitgeist waiting for our tea and coffee she pointed up, and I listened; the cafe speakers were playing an almost inaudible version of I Ain’t Got No Home, a song we used to perform back in Chorus days.
Do you want to sing? I asked.
She laughed and shook her head. I’m too tired!
We’re probably the most reticent of all the Chorus members, but if a few others (Stevie, Mina, or Erin, for instance) had been around it is likely the cafe would have been regaled with an impromptu performance they might not have appreciated on what looked like a hungover Sunday morning.
The two of us were exhausted and running on perhaps three hours of sleep because last night we went to the opera to see Jeffrey singing in The Flying Dutchman – an excellent show. Our seats were great, center front row dress circle, a special treat to celebrate her birthday and seven years of friendship.
Marisa loved the music, and I tried not to pay too much attention to the fact that I was allergic to something or someone nearby, sneezing as discretely as possible. At the second intermission we met Byron for drinks then tracked down the smokers outside.
I asked Jody what he thought about the work, other than the anti-semitism of the composer, and he quite sensibly replied that he didn’t like the love story because She spurned the human person who loved her in favor of the creepy ghost pirate.
This pretty much sums up what I thought while watching. It is easy to fall in love with a concept, portrait, ballad, story – an abstract representation of another. It is far more difficult to take care of the people right in front of you, and of course more rewarding in the long run. Love may be ephemeral or it might last, but it is an emotion, not an action. Relationships are complicated and messy and if they are sustainable require commitment, attention, and work.
Give me Erik the Hunter over the Flying Dutchman any day.
Standing around on the sidewalk with friends old and new, I was thankful once again for the honor and privilege of knowing these people. Walking back toward the theatre Jody playfully smacked me in the head with his program. I blinked in astonishment and then said brightly Oh look – I didn’t even have a flashback!
Not that anyone should feel invited to repeat the experiment. Later we went to the Whiskey Bar for a Himsa record preview party, where I said goodbye to BP probably for the last time this summer, abandoning Byron to the vicissitudes of the metal kids and running away to the Bus Stop with Marisa.
We talked and laughed for hours until closing, when it was time for the (probably last ever) nacho party at Jeffrey’s bachelor pad. Sophie moves in this week – times are changing – and it was genius to stay up too late with dear people I will miss when I leave:
If it has been nineteen years since I met Byron Number One then the anniversary of my car accident came and went without the standard acknowledgment. Guess I was too busy.
Though I have been thinking about those years, since I continue to meet fellow Kitsap kids. I find it entertaining to spend time with people from the same place who do not share my DNA (or at least, we aren’t exactly sure if we’re cousins – the original dozen or so families are intertwined to an extent nobody can trace).
In fact, one overly dramatic evening I abandoned the party I was obligated to attend and went out in search of hometown friends – specifically BP, whose brother worked for my grandfather, and Helen, a girl I met on the first day of kindergarten and knew until we graduated. I’m so glad we had the opportunity to meet again as adults:
Last night I was hanging out at the Bus Stop with a whole bunch of people who don’t speak a common language and we kept dissolving into laughter as we tried to translate and communicate. Like I pointed out to Niki Sugar behind the bar, I barely speak English.
He agreed and replied Yeah, I only speak Hillbilly and Slur!
At some point Natalia walked up and said I was just in the bathroom and heard you giggling and it made me so sad because you are leaving!
Just then Byron Number One materialized and I shrieked with delight – I thought he was out of town! He said I heard that laugh from down the street and knew it had to be you!
Apparently my voice carries – how strange! He was rushing away to play Ms. Pac Man at Pony but told me that he is staging a new opera at Aldeburgh, on the coast near where I live in England. Hurray!
If you are local consider checking out his performance of Piao Zhu: Flying Bamboo this weekend at the Arts in Nature Festival.
