The sixteenth anniversary of the accident came and went and I have no idea what I did on that day this year; maybe we were in London, maybe we were lazing about having a picnic in a meadow next to a river.

One thing is certain — I was not thinking about carnage on a rural highway. There is a chance that I have started to forget, though that is not terribly plausible. The better explanation is that I moved to a place where it is neither necessary nor desirable to drive.

Instead of overcoming a paralyzing fear that limited my daily life, I simply moved to a place where I am not required to perform the task that was forever fraught with emotion.

This is a clever trick. I should have thought of it years ago.

The last time I saw Marisa we talked about clothes, and the contrast between her style and mine. She has known me a long time but she has forgotten that when we met I had short black hair and dressed in work pants, tshirts, and a black tattered hoodie, the correct urban camouflage for that time and place.

But looking right always makes me squeamish and I moved on to a phase of wearing square dancing dresses, cocktail dresses, swishy polyester, dazzling sequined antique skirts. I carried handbags to match each outfit. I grew out my hair and dyed it three colors and gave up my old round spectacles for blue flashy frames. Because nobody else in my vicinity was doing any of those things.

I have been collecting things my entire life. Not generally on purpose, not with intent, not even always with my consent. It just happens — particularly clothes. For each incarnation of my identity I have had a compulsion to create a new wardrobe, and around the edges of this desire people give me gifts and oddities.

In Portland I had endless access to cheap vintage clothes and a dry basement with 800 square feet of storage. By the time we moved the entire area was full of boxes and dressers and stacks of hats, piles of shoes, racks of clothing.

During the Seattle years I was in a state of mourning. I was distraught over broken bones and betrayal, the deliberate cessation of certain friendships. I was trying to understand the reality of living in the landscape of my dreams.

I wore basic black every single day and paced the floors of my sweet little house, staring at the mountains through the picture windows, and then sat down to write with ferocity. I worked and played with my kids and went swimming. Eventually I cut my hair and dyed it back to a natural state and moved from black clothes to shades of brown and blue. But I did not wear my beautiful dresses; I was not feeling frivolous.

I gave away or sold half of my clothes when we moved to Seattle. Packing to come here I whittled the remaining allotment down by three quarters. But even after purging that volume I was left with a fabulous wardrobe, an entirely amazing set of clothes that would cost a fortune if I had to replace them. Not that I could replace them; I do not have the body type that is most valued by owners of vintage clothing stores. The outfits I’ve found over the years are in fact remarkably special.

And now it may all be ruined. I have no idea; the laundry has not called to report.

I have not allowed myself to be upset – yet – but uncertainty is not a favored emotion. I do not want to be compensated for the loss of my wardrobe.

I want my clothes.

The most precious of my possessions arrived whole and well. The dental plate collection, false eye, glass slippers, antique ashtrays – everything in my scientific cabinet and the cabinet itself arrived without any damage. I’ve hung the paintings and photographs, sorted the zines, opened all the boxes to cull the best bits.

Even though this was the second big move in less than two years I still have random things that nobody should keep in their lives; old receipts (for example a faded record of grocery purchases in Olympia circa 1990), books I never plan to read, all the letters I have ever received and many of the tens of thousands I have sent.

Down at the bottom of a big box I found the songbooks. Now if the mood strikes I can look up the words to all the songs I used to know, though paging through these small handmade books makes me feel sad.

I put together the pamphlet we distributed at the Mudwrestling Hoedown, and it took hours of library research to find the perfect images of square dance instructions and wrestling guides, then an unknown number of additional hours to laboriously cut and paste the assemblage.

That particular event was a fundraiser but it was mostly just an excuse for lots of people to wear crazy outfits and roll around in the mud. There was a kissing booth and I was a popcorn girl.

Who won the wrestling competition? I cannot recall.

Later that summer, during my Travelers Party, this kid showed up in the middle of the night and sat on the porch with assorted people including James and Per. We traded macabre childhood stories and toward dawn he said that the place was a punk retirement community, the place people go when they can no longer deal with real cities.

These are the maudlin thoughts of a rainy afternoon in England:

I miss my friends, miss singing. But that place was not my home and I do not think I will ever find one. I doubt that such a thing exists. It will have to be enough that I have so many dear friends all over the world, that I have this eccentric small family, that I can keep moving on.

Because of the extreme chaos of the last few weeks, and limited internet access, I missed the deadline to turn in the catalog description of my new book.

This is disconcerting because several of my friends offered up excellent ideas of how to describe the thing — it is not actually a cancer memoir but rather a book about danger and safety.

The content and perspective is difficult to convey in a succinct way that works in catalog format. I am not in fact capable of describing it in conversation, let alone writing a precis.

When I downloaded all my email there were hundreds if not thousands of urgent tasks that went untended and this message from AEM:

Dude! Get on the ball. I had to stop in and write your book blurb for the catalog on the way through Chicago. I described it as “pure fluff,” “head candy” and “rib-tickling!!!” Hope you don’t mind.

I haven’t laughed so much all month. But the funniest thing is that she actually does agree with me that the stories are hilarious.

Which is why I love her.

On Tuesday we popped down to London to do the touristy things we will never get around to once we have acclimated to living here. The idea was to take advantage of a brief rest before our household goods arrived, because unpacking is so chaotic and stressful. We saw the changing of the guard (or at least the start before we grew bored and wandered off), took in the view from the top of Westminster Cathedral, toured the Cutty Sark, and when the skies started to spark with lightning took a boat tour of the Thames.

The next day the movers showed up with the 20 foot box we packed in early June in Seattle. It was still sealed shut, and when they cracked the bolts and opened doors water poured out of the container. 

We all jumped back. Then we realized it wasn’t just water – the liquid running out was oily and dark. The movers described the smell as putrid, wretched. It smelled of the sea, and fish, and oil, and putrefaction.

As the day progressed they said they had never seen a shipment damaged to this degree.

Everything packed in the bottom of the container was wrecked.

The soft goods are permeated with a ghastly smell. Every single item of clothing, all the bedding, all plush toys, and most of the books have been ruined.

Also wrecked in the process, mostly by negligence on the part of the shippers, were sundries such as four bicycles. My hypoallergenic and very expensive mattress. The kids bed frames. Too many other things to list.

I am not fazed nor even particularly upset (I’ll save that for later). I just have a lot of work to do. I’ve spent the better part of three days and nights systematically surveying all the damage, making lists, throwing away the debris.

The insurance has already kicked in, a handyman is coming to fix our furniture and bikes, and I’m going to try and find a new mattress today (this will be challenging as bed sizes are different here). We have decamped to a hotel in the meanwhile.

I do apologize to everyone waiting to hear from me about manuscripts and book tours. Life has intervened and I will not be able to check email for a little while.

The new house is narrow and three stories high and furnished with not much more than a baby grand piano.

Other than sitting on the piano bench and looking out through french doors at the garden I am still at a loss — the household goods passed customs but have not yet been released to our care.

I have urgent deadlines predicated on work that cannot be completed without my other computer, bored children who want their rooms back, and a traveling husband who keeps ending up in the emergency room.

I miss my friends and my mother. Though my opinion is that they should all just follow me here.

When I unpacked the suitcases I found another set of random mix tapes that seem to consist almost entirely of the music I listened to in 1985. The current theme song is What Difference Does it Make?

Internet access is once again sketchy, so if you are expecting email, please pardon my silence.

Everything we own was shipped in early June. The only cds left out of the shipment were simply overlooked, not chosen. For the last several weeks we have had a grand total selection of three mix tapes and the Dennis DriscollTalent Show album.

Since the teenager will only let us play the Dennis Driscoll, this move will forevermore be associated with that whimsical young man and his musings about love, longing, and Ilwaco WA.

This is the last day in our temporary apartment. I need to pack the suitcases once again, coaxing the children to locate whatever precious things they have stashed around the place.

Byron is in Boston, selling our Seattle house via fax from his hotel and visiting as many friends as possible when he isn’t at the conference. He is supposed to come back to England tomorrow, then fly back to Seattle at the weekend, and somewhere in the middle of all this our household goods will have passed customs and we will celebrate the girls birthday with a short trip to London.

Oh, and we have to unpack, start the utilities, get a phone number, arrange internet access, and the kids need to visit their new schools.

Not to mention the fact that Byron has to actually go to work.

Whereas I have to do the final copyedits on the anthology, and finish the memoir.

In addition to my full-time job running a digital media empire.

The idyll has ended and I’m going to be a wee bit busy this week. But at least I’ll have my cds back.

The first few weeks in a new country have passed rapidly in part because we are staying in temporary digs and still living out of suitcases.

This is not much fun, even though the apartment is more posh than we deserve, and our collective family anxiety level was slowly rising even before Byron ended up in hospital with an asthma attack the morning before he flew back to the states for a conference.

We are now so disheveled that we have reverted to the comforting strategy of singing Chorus songs while meandering about Stourbridge Common.

Though we have no songbook at hand and have forgotten many verses – so we go from a fragment of Union Maid to a snippet of Barrett’s Privateers to a mixed up rendition of Rote Zora. The song I wish we knew all the way through is Ramblin’ Rover but we only retain this verse:

Well there’s many who feign enjoyment
   At merciless employment
Their ambition is this deployment 
   From the minute they left the school
And they save and scrape and ponder
   While the rest go out and squander
Roam the world and rove and wander
   And we’re happier as a rule….

Back in the temporary apartment we have been entranced by copious lashings of television time. It is in fact amazing to sit here and watch the BBC for hours on end, in part because the quality is much lower than I had imagined growing up on imports.

The regular programming consists almost entirely of tedious reality shows, many of which are based around the theme of real estate. People sell houses. Buy houses. Decorate houses. Renovate houses.

I watch even though I’m not particularly interested, mainly because I haven’t had a television in so long it has taken on the allure of a secret vice.

Beyond the home shows this country is mad for relocation stories – an hour doesn’t pass without some dramatic short documentary about people going off to start a new life somewhere. Though they never seem to have capital, savings, or jobs, which seems rather stupid to me.

Maybe I’m just too keen on stability. Despite my cultural and aesthetic preference for risk and adventure, I always have an infrastructure… or at least a plan.

It is possible that my puzzlement over these shows may have more to do with the fact that I would never want to be a hotelier, takeaway shop owner, or tour guide for rich tourists.

I am not (yet) experiencing culture shock by definition. This is after all the country where my primary language was devised. However, having said that, there are a few strange differences between the UK and the US.

First of all, instead of pronouncing Adidas Uh – dee – duhs they say A – eh – dee – dass. Which might not have come to my attention except they seem mad for the brand.

Secondly, the washing machine has a capacity of perhaps three towels, which it can successfully launder and dry if you allow four hours.

I’m not joking.

Many of our friends line dry to circumvent the process but our allergies preclude this solution so my days are dogged by washing clothes.

The only other general observations are more regional than cultural.

The weather here is much like my memories of growing up on the Kitsap Peninsula: cold and wet with occasional sun.

Also, people had assured me that the English are reticent and polite but my spectacles are soliciting full-on stares of a nature I have never had to deal with. Strange.

During our trip to Barcelona, after walking around in the rain for days but before my wallet was stolen, I changed my personal motto.

Until that moment it was I live to serve.

In the shadow of the Sagrada Familia I decided it had better be Don’t be a dumbass.

The whole thing is working out rather well…. my life is much more pleasant now. However. It appears that it is necessary to reduce operating costs, which means that with exactly a week until we move to a different country, we have decided to sell the house.

I keep waking up in the middle of the night to wander around admiring the coved ceilings.

Onward!

Watch as your new style lofi superheroes Asthma Boy and Cancer Girl throw themselves recklessly into the maelstrom of home repairs! No skills or stamina? No problem!

We’ll hold our breath to avoid the paint fumes; we’ll wrap our weak wrists in elastic bandages when the muscles shred! We might end up in the hospital by the end of this escapade, but at least we won’t show our weakness by asking our friends for help!

Though really, it hasn’t been that difficult. I bought environmentally sensitive paint and we’re almost done. The only pressing thing left to decide is whether or not I should paint over the foot high stencil downstairs that reads DIME CHICKS ICED UP * * * MINKED OUT * * * TROLLY SICK.

Luckily the previous tenant already covered the murals that said SACRIFICE and RESIST PSYCHIC DEATH.

The extra teenager who lived with us all year just moved out.

Grief, despair: there are actual tears escaping from my head.