This morning I heard from a friend who told me that someone who has professed loathing for me, and demonstrated their ire in obvious ways, is now enthusiastically looking forward to reading my next book. Recently I heard from another friend that someone who was highly critical of my young self now tells all who will listen how much he always adored me.

I don’t really know what to make of these reports. I maintain an almost fetishistic devotion to the concept of truth – even if the truth is uneasy or sad.

I’m sure that whatever happened with these people was mostly my fault. I am a difficult, prickly, eccentric person. During the cancer years my sense of pride was the only thing that kept me alive long enough to make a series of profound mistakes. It has taken extraordinary effort to remain tethered to this world and act with decency.

I do not expect people to enjoy my company.

But then as I sat here fretfully considering my dark past I remembered that it doesn’t really matter. If people want to revise their own history and be friendly, I’m willing to accommodate this as a new truth. I bear no grudges precisely because I understand the inexorable reality of imminent death.

I feel no ill will toward anyone, regardless of what they have done or said. It is foolhardy to care more about the past than the present.

I mailed about twenty-seven promised packages; if you are expecting an order or trade and do not receive it by the end of next week please let me know. Except for those of you who live in Europe – the post office predicted at least two weeks.

I’ve been so busy I haven’t been able to keep up with correspondence but I’m so happy to have received such great stuff lately! Get well cards from lots of folks including Opadit, and Hiya & Jonathan, holiday greetings from Chokobotkid and others, good wishes and a care package from Candywarhol, a mix tape from Sholanda, an audiozine from Erin Yanke… the list goes on. I am sure that I have neglected to mention scads of others. I’m lucky to have so many interesting friends.

I went back to my journal from last December. Reading the whole thing was rather startling; I guess I had lots on my mind last winter.

I seem to have accidentally forgotten to go to a few of the company parties (once may well be enough) but we did see the arrival of the Lucia bride in Poulsbo. I do not particularly believe in criticizing community events; suffice to say that we had more fun last year, when the whole presentation was geared toward true believers.

This year I could easily have skipped the whole thing and hung out with my relatives in the Sons of Norway private bar. But I will hold out hope for the future based on the memories of past events.

Eli is visiting this week while she performs at Mixer 2: A festival of contemporary dance solos.
Chamber Theater
Oddfellows Hall
4th Floor
915 E. Pine

Tickets are $12 for one program (Eli is in Program A) or $20 for both. Shows are December 4 – 7.

Recently I heard from various sources that a couple of people I know are hell bent on destruction. I mean this to be taken literally; both are making such extreme and specific choices I am surveying my clothes to figure out what to wear to the next funeral.

These are people who make me laugh, who shine with a particular kind of seductive genius. These are people I’ve scraped off sidewalks, bailed out of jail, visited in psych wards, mailed cookies to when they found far-away jobs that were supposed to be some kind of new life. I’ve given vast amounts of time over the years in an effort to help them.

Eventually, because I was tired and needed to protect my own physical safety, I drifted away. Not because I stopped caring but because the combination of poverty, mental illness, and addiction is lethal. I knew that if I stuck around I was risking my own life.

My instinct is always to help people, render aid, start rescue operations. But I’ve done that for these friends, with no marked change. They have benefited from the vast efforts of a large community. They have been diagnosed, medicated, analyzed, rehabilitated, and in the end jailed. They have held down jobs, gone to school, traveled. Nothing has ever worked for more than a few months at a time.

I think that the underlying mental and physical disabilities might be things that can be treated, but in both of these lives addiction has such a strong hold nothing else sticks. Or the variety of addiction works at cross purposes with the need for certain prescription drugs. Or the legal drugs can never fully treat the profound level of damage. In at least one of the lives, it is also a clear choice. Even if she had never started using she would be suicidal. The drugs are simply the method she picked.

Right now I feel sad because I hate waste, and these people have wasted their youth. I am angry because I love them and they are leaving.

I wish that I knew the magical antidote to alienation and depression. I wish that I could mend the terrors of a lost childhood. I wish that I could force my friends to listen and understand that there is another life. I wish that I could make it true. I wish that I could follow, grab their hands, drag them back.

I wish that I could feel enough rage that this hopeless love would die.

But I’m left behind, sorting the facts, writing empty sentences, wishing.

Today I was driving along and listening to the radio when a pop song started to play. This was a song I never liked from a band that never interested me, but I found myself overwhelmed with nostalgia. I felt this song on a visceral level, in the middle of my body, like grief.

I remembered being young, and never having what I needed to do what I wanted. I remembered the mad escapes and the regret over leaving. I remembered mistakes, damage, cold rain, driving through dark forests. I remembered choosing the people who cared for me instead of the people I cared about.

As a child I memorized the airline schedules for flights to England, and read my way through the entire library with no discernment. I constructed this fantasy of what life could be if I could just leave, get away.

Anna Ruby, Stevie, Marisa, Maki, AEM, Byron, Stella, Al, Erin Scarum with a chainsaw, an assortment of happy kids. Good food, slide shows, shadow puppets, laughter. How could a holiday get much better?

From my kitchen to yours, happy thanksgiving.

This weekend I learned that it is possible to leave the Bremerton Value Village at closing and still make the 9:45 Winslow ferry to Seattle. How cool is that?

Thrift scores included an assortment of garments that appear to have been tailored just for my quirky body: a black checked polyester blazer, yellow skirt, red and white floral hostess outfit, and a dress best described as demented majorette.

On Sunday we had breakfast with AEM and Mark. Upon hearing that we lived in Olympia at the same time (and did in fact live near him on Cooper Point for awhile) he said but But I don’t remember you.

I replied I had different glasses then.

We had quite an interesting discussion about ghost towns in New Mexico before saying goodbye and departing to pick up and drop off various children.

Later Mark objected to appearing in this journal, which is hilarious. I replied via AEM: welcome to the twentieth century.

Our adorable old fridge broke! Or rather, the handle did. We have no idea what to do. Call a repairman? But who? Seems like a job for a welder; but maybe there are specialized beloved old object repair people nowadays?

Alternet picked up my essay The Rest of Us and it has been syndicated all over the place:

The continuing economic slide and disintegration of social programs will only make the split between poor women and rich women more pronounced and cause deep anxiety for those of us who live somewhere in the middle.

Our insurance covers a new pair of glasses each year. I’ve used the benefit because I like to have an heir and a spare on hand at all times. Byron could not be persuaded that he needed to upgrade even though his old glasses never fit in the first place and lack of care has ruined the frames.

Then he watched a video of his presentation from the conference last week and realized exactly how disheveled he looks.

Yesterday as we were driving to a bookstore he said maybe I should consider getting new glasses and I blinked and immediately started issuing directives to drive toward Fremont.

We were almost turned away from the mission when we saw an old drunken man fall down a wooded slope, but after parking and hiking down to extract him from the blackberry bushes, dusting him off, and guiding him to a sidewalk, we went back to what I knew was an urgent task.

When Byron mentions even a glimmer of interest in consumer goods it is necessary to act quickly; coaxing him into a store is more difficult than caging a woodland creature.

Byron of course experienced the adventure as acutely painful. I helped him select spectacles that actually fit his face, inquired for the correct color, and examined the stock of vintage frames for additional options. While he paced and fretted, stopping occasionally to stare at himself in the mirror, I also picked out a new set for myself.

It took exactly forty-five minutes to choose, pay the deposit, and figure out how to get the old prescriptions from Portland.

This brings up a whole new problem for me. I may need to change my hair color.

I had my final check-up and clean bill of health this week. The surgeon said that the organ and debris pulled out of my belly passed pathology – no cancer.

During the most severe period of illness I kept an accurate count of my scars, but stopped at 300. My best estimate is that this new set of five brings me… close to 400.

Best of all, I now have an even number of surgical scars on my belly. I was bothered by having three; it seemed so untidy.

I told Ayun about my joy at having eight scars instead of three and she replied:

I was going to get all Schoolhouse Rocky on you and say place it on its side and it’s a figure meaning innnnnfinnnnnnnnnnity! But that would have to be a numeral eight and I bet the last thing you want is a trip to the plastic surgeon to make that one happen.