Epic
January 18, 2015
The champagne is Kerry's idea. We're waiting for the guys, on our first round of cocktails in the lounge area of the Gallery Bar at the Biltmore. It's a refreshing change of ambiance from downtown's other three nightlife options (grungy, kiddie, or bougie). Here it's wingback chairs, piano, chandeliers and cast plaster columns. Bartender in a brocade vest who doesn't ask to hold a credit card. Patrons are scarce other than a cluster of puffy fifty-ish banker types in tuxedos. We're catching up.
"Oh, I've got something good," I say. I've already filled her in on Bonnaroo (she's only impressed by the 80s-era names on the lineup) and Terence's news (the cause for the champagne). "My ex-husband got remarried."
"Shut up. Really?"
I tell her what I know, which isn't much. Just what's on the wedding website, which is still up two months later. The only noteworthy part is the About Us timeline, which has some interesting dates. Keyword: overlap. But the liquor in my bloodstream makes me feel forgiving. And anyway, any sting I felt at the discovery a few days ago dissipated with the remembrance of how disastrously mismatched and unhappy he and I were.
"It's funny, but the thing that bugged me most was the photo gallery, all these snapshots of them together. He's wearing clothes I bought him. And I can tell from his hair that if those pictures weren't taken, like, simultaneously, then they were pretty damn soon after we split."
"So wait, you knew her?"
"Yeah. Well, no, I never met her. I knew of her. He worked with her. They were friends. She had a boyfriend at the time. He said."
She is suitably scandalized but I can't generate much more feeling about it. Any emotion I had to spend on him was cashed in half a decade ago. We move on.
Another round of cocktails because the guys are both still at work. Pimm's Cup for me; I know to keep my drinks light as long as possible, because there will be many. She's having dirty martinis, juice on the side, not her usual. She's sick of the sweet stuff, she says. A waitress dressed identical to the bartender brings a silver dish of mixed nuts.
Terence arrives first, smiling sheepishly and raising his arms in playful victory as he reaches us. He knows I will have told Kerry his big news. As he's settling in, leaning over to kiss me hello, I see Kerry give the signal to our waitress. She has the champagne ready behind the bar, and Ross walks in just as she's presenting it. Terence is surprised and grateful, but I just point at Kerry. "All her." There's half a strawberry for each of us, which we plunk into our flutes before toasting Terence. Clinking glass and cheering. Aaand we're off, I think.
We drink and talk. We gossip and joke. We debate dinner options, though it's still early. We drink and talk more. I excuse myself to go cough in the soundproof plushness of the ladies' powder room, cursing my choice of light leather bomber and ripped jeans. I'd kill for a puffer, knee boots, thick socks. At least my insides are alight with liquid warmth.
Back at the table, I nearly topple the flutes in my tipsy haste to show them something. "Oooh, you guys. I almost forgot. Check this out." On my phone's browser I search for an actor who I've recently realized is the spitting image of a mutual acquaintance. When I find the image I'm looking for, I pass my phone to Kerry. "Doesn't he look exactly like him?" Her astonished agreement pleases me.
"Oh my god, he totally does. Ross, look at this." She texts the photo to our friend.
We're ready for dinner; Italian wins out. But not our usual mom-and-pop spot. The bigger, fancier place with the menu and prices to match. We're celebrating, after all. On the walk over I split off alone and run back to the apartment for a warmer coat. Stupid not to have dressed better, getting over a cold. "Get a table, I'll be five minutes behind you." As I'm hurriedly trading summery flares for heavy denim and a sweater, Terence texts a photo. Two greyhounds he's just passed, on a walk with their owner, Kerry just ahead in the frame and looking, from the tilt of her shoulders, a bit wobbly. Puppehs, baby.
Dinner is delicious but a bit of a shitshow. We agree to share three entrees among us but somehow no one pays attention to the fact that all three choices contain red sauce. Kerry dislikes red sauce. When the food comes and she declines any of it, the rest of us stop cold, in the middle of serving ourselves, and stare at her incredulously. "Wait, you're not going to have anything??"
"I don't like red sauce. I told you guys! That's why I wanted the white pizza." I glare at Ross, who changed the pizza order.
"You are her husband," I accuse, pointing at him. His job to know her dietary preferences. But she isn't really mad, and squelches my insistence that we order something else. She's fine. She'll just have bread. She's pretty toasted.
I'm tasked with picking the wine, though I only ever order pinot noir or shiraz. We go through the pinot in a flash, as well as the sausage and black truffle pasta special, gnocchi, and a pizza the ingredients of which I can't identify. (Other than red sauce.) Halfway through the meal the mood of the table plummets and all of us are bickering with our partners. Kerry is morose, hungrier than she's letting on, and Ross is annoyed at her for stubbornly refusing to eat more than a bite of gnocchi, sauce scraped off. Terence is sloppy wasted and his table manners are driving me crazy. I snipe at him bossily. "Stop pointing at everyone's food like that." "Leave those for Ross, you finished the pizza." "I'm going to bathroom. Don't touch my wine."
After the plates are cleared, though, we're laughing again and back to our happy buzzy place. What's next? I want Kerry to see a nearby rooftop bar she's never been to but I know there'll probably be a line to get in. Kerry does not do lines. ("I'm forty-four," she likes to announce proudly. "I don't wait in lines.") But they're game to at least walk over, which we do, linking arms as couples and marching stiffly in the cold. Kerry doesn't have a jacket but swears she's fine.
There's a line, and though we give it a couple minutes, it'll be at least a quarter of an hour before we can get in, so we bail. Where to? Someone suggests the huge but cozy hipsterhaven craft cocktail bar/restaurant a few blocks over, where Kross met Terence for the first time, in September of 2013. As we troop in, Terence points to where the four of us sat that night. "It was right there, remember? You had your scooter." I remember.
We find four chairs by a carved-out section of wall where a fireplace would make sense, though there isn't one. Instead there's a grouping of tall glass oil candles. Little bit of heat, anyway. The chairs are low and wide, dark metal wire with thin ivory cushions. A low square cement table at our knees holds our drinks. Dirty martini, Terence's old-fashioned, my cider, and some cocktail with Mezcal that the bartender at first refused to make for Ross when he admitted he'd never had it. ("I'd rather make you something else," she says flatly. "Most people send it back, they don't like the smoky taste. It's really, really smoky," she repeats insistently. Ross listens to her argument, placidly nodding, yes, okay, that's alright. It's just us two at the bar getting drinks for the others and I feel defensive on behalf of my painfully polite friend. "It's fine," I tell her firmly. "He never sends anything back. And he's adventurous." Both are true, and he does indeed enjoy the drink.)
Back at the table I realize I've left a ring behind at the restaurant, that I took off when Kerry and I were trying on one another's jewelry. There's little chance of finding it, a delicate chain-style ring that, when taken off, collapses to nearly nothing. "It's no big deal," I insist. "Seriously like ten dollars at Unique LA. Totally replaceable." Terence runs back to the restaurant to look anyway, but returns empty-handed five minutes later.
We stay a while. The conversation turns to family. Kerry, sister to three brothers, tells us about the one she doesn't see much. Accomplished athlete, father to two boys she suspects will follow suit. At some point I pull my legs up into my chair, detaching from the talk and just blissfully enjoying the company of my friends. Kerry is Googling her athlete brother for pics to show me and Terence and Ross are animated, laughing about something else. Holy fuck I'm going to miss these people. I take a picture of them. Kerry's nose is in her phone but I can't risk asking her to look up; she'll hide her face. She hates having her photo taken.
When I drift back in, they're talking about Vladimir Putin. I don't have anything to contribute. My cider is the most delicious I've ever had. I examine the label. "Wandering Aengus". Must find. Whole Foods maybe?
Something's happened. Kerry's upset. What is it? What happened? Apparently she's annoyed that she's the only one with a full drink; ours are nearly empty. I thought we were drinking? she asks peevishly. I thought you guys wanted to get drinks? Isn't that why we're here? I try to soothe her. She's pretty far gone, and she's a lovably grumpy drunk. It's okay! Finish your drink. We're just chilling. I think we were talking about going someplace else, after, instead of getting another round.
But we're losing her. We need to change locations quickly or she'll be done for the night. So we head back out into the cold towards the main drag of bars. Long strides to match the men, and to keep warm. Terence scampers up to the elevated shopfronts that run the length of the sidewalk besides us. He weaves in and out of columns, singing, cavorting. I catch his eye and gesture with my hands. Your jacket, I mouth silently, jerking my head towards a shivering Kerry. Without interrupting the song or the weaving, Terence dutifully peels off his jacket and hands it to Kerry. She refuses ("I'm fine! Have I complained once?") but I forcefully drape it over she shoulders and after a moment she gives in and slips her arms through the sleeves.
Next bar. Loud, crowded, familiar faces. The bouncer, blue-eyed and thick-necked, greets me with a one-armed hug. "Hey stranger, long time no see." We used to chat when I'd come here to meet Kerry for drinks, back when I'd just gotten divorced. He doesn't card any of our group, and we find a snug corner in the back.
We stay too long. Kerry's starving, but refuses the chips I sneak off to buy her. We're all tired. Saturated. Maybe just old. The bar is playing 80s music though, which eventually gets the best of Kerry. She slides off her bar stool to dance. The chips, like the cider, seem like the most delicious I've ever had. Why does everything taste so good tonight? I squint in the dark at the bag. "Zapp's Voodoo Potato Chips." My shopping list grows.
Selfie time. Even Kerry's into it, cheerfully leaning into me for a shot of us. She likes it! Amazing! "Post that somewhere," she commands vaguely. Social media is a big mystery to her, as is my blog. But she knows I post stuff, somewhere. "Seriously. That's a great picture." It's a great picture of her. I, on the other hand, am a scraggly-haired disaster. Still, I know I'll post it, because of how she truly lit up when she saw it. That's rare.
Time collapses. We're on the move again. Next stop: more food. Second dinner for three of us, first for one. We take a Lyft to the famous Pacific Dining Car. I'm the only one who's never been, and the others enjoy my impressed reaction. It's as cloistered and rich and old-world and fun as they'd promised on the ride over. All green velvet and brass. Tartan carpet, soft-spoken waiters in penguin suits, cardboard framed menus heavy in the hand. Holy shit the prices. Seventy dollar steaks? You guys...
No, it's okay, there's a cheaper late night menu. Here.
I leave the decision making to them. I'm not really hungry, though I'll pick at what we get. I zone out, editing photos while they discuss. I only want to make sure Kerry gets exactly what she wants this time. Sure enough, when the server comes there's a moment of indecision and she offers to sacrifice her first choice, but the rest of us shout her down.
Food comes fast on the heels of final cocktails. Eggs benedict, hash browns, some kind of bacon and spinach scramble? I have a bite or two and then let the others finish it off. When they're done I smear chunks of fresh, hot white bread across the plate. The yolk. So fucking good.
It's fantastic—the meal, the laughter, the sleepy happy tipsy feel of our foursome. Our mood is solid. Everyone is firmly on board. Team players, all. Kerry even submits to more photos, cuddling on her husband like a cat. I thrust the phone in her face. "Look at you. Look at your skin!" She shrugs it off, smiling, not even asking for copies of such flattering photos of herself. She couldn't care less. I love this woman.
Afterwards we head back out through the narrow doorway single file, each grabbing a foil-wrapped Swiss chocolate ball, except for Terence, who takes four. We summon a Lyft, huddling together to wait in the chilly asphalt parking lot. The lot is virtually empty, but the others assure me that post-bar diners are about to descend en masse. The Lyft driver who responds to Terence's request looks like Aileen Wuornos. He holds up his phone to show us her profile picture. "Monster's coming to get us," he quips.
"Great," I say. "She's going to blow you guys and then kill us all."
Terence is quick tonight. To Ross, without missing a beat: "So just a typical Friday night, eh?!" All four of us lose it, staggering like drunks as we try to catch our breath from laughter.
I know I'll pay for this night tomorrow, and probably a few days afterward. I'm already nauseous from mixing drinks and when I laugh, a nasty cough seizes me for a good minute. So much for recovery. But fuck it. Epic night, that I know I'll want to remember.
Venice
April 9, 2015
Okay, we've Eastered. Now what? Beach day? We waffle. Kind of cold, swimming would be out of the question. Lay on the sand bundled up? I'm itching for the ocean, but it's also getting late. "I can get us there in half an hour." Fuck it, let's go.
I haven't been to Venice since high school. The intersection we turn at looks exactly the same, the one where we spent our meager teenage dollars on imitation Ray-Bans, leather bracelets, mood rings. Where the oldest looking among us hoodwinked the liquor store cashier into selling him a six pack of Zima. My first hangover. Long live young Thespians.
Whiplash back to the present: a parking attendant is demanding $30 for a spot in a makeshift lot near the main drag. "You're out of your mind," I scoff, but as we start to pull away I call back to him: "Will you take twenty?" It's packed out here today, and I'm antsy to get moving. But Terence thinks he can find street parking, and a few minutes later, he does. I hoist the beach tote, heavy with just-in-case, over my shoulder. Rash guard just in case. Sunscreen just in case. Flip flops just in case. Blanket just in case.
The wind starts my eyes watering immediately. I zip up my jacket, squinting into the already low sun. We get our bearings, taking in the shuffling crowd: colorful locals mixed with tourists and day trippers, teens on bikes, skateboarders. More pit bulls than I've seen in one place, ever.
Slightly more decrepit than I remember but not much different otherwise. Ethnic food every few feet. Souvenir shops spilling slang-covered shirts onto the walkway. "Ratchet 1" catches my eye, an in-joke with neighborfriend. I debate buying it for her while Terence checks out a hooded muscle tank: I FLEXED AND THE SLEEVES FELL OFF. I'd been wanting to find him a fun tank for Bonnaroo - this is perfect. The arm holes aren't too deep and he'll break his hand from the high fives it gets him. We've got spirit, yes we do. We've got spirit, how 'bout you?
A sunburned, dusty looking kid in neon and cargo shorts latches onto us. Store employee - one of several. They work on commission. He's already trying to sell me the "Ratchet" top, saw me laughing at it. Ten years ago I would have given in; the kid is cute and clearly hungry. But today I shake my head. "It'd be a fun gag for about ten seconds, but she'd never wear it." Quite a little racket they've got going in this place: prices vary wildly depending on clothing article and complexity of design. $35 for a beach tee. Eh, it'll be worth it. It'll be fun. God, Bonnaroo. Just around the corner.
Already feeling like we've won, like we've made the trip worth it, we step back out into crowd, getting swept along mindlessly until I spot a sign. Soft-serve ice cream. Yes. Tiny little place, staff scurrying to shove hot dogs and pretzels and slurpees into the hands of hungry children and frazzled parents. Terence gets a corn dog, spraying me with mustard when the pump on the condiment table sticks. I retreat back outside but he comes after me with a fistful of napkins. "Where did I get you?" No matter: I'm already busy with my own mess. Dripping swirls of chocolate and vanilla, melting much too fast considering the cold, as if it knows it's in Southern California, has a reputation to uphold.
We eat besides an outdoor gym: parallel bars and rings and climbing ropes mounted into concrete, inches from the sand. No serious contenders here today, though, just a few toughs in undershirts showing off for their girlfriends, or each other. They shimmy self-consciously up thick cables, refusing to look at anyone when they reach the top or slide back down, obviously pleased with themselves. "Do you think you could do it?" "God no. You?" "Maybe."
I notice the color. Look left at the row of businesses, begging with all their might for attention, see a splashy wonderland. Painted walls, painted plastic. Some of the people beg for attention, too. Spiked hair, spiked shoes, leopard print and leotards. But look right, out towards the water? A desert. Wasteland of grey-beige sand, much of it dusted up into the air, hazing over the sunshine. The beach looks barren.
We notice the sound: the wind, whooshing through palm trees whose fronds are lifted and flattened as if against a wall, on the ocean side. Here away from the crowd it's all you hear. We look at one another, marveling at this small thing.
Snacks consumed, we amble on in search of - what? More food? Sights? Not sure. We just amble. The sidewalk grows narrow and chokes up with foot traffic; we skirt along on the browning, brushy grass hill beside. So many dogs! I smile down at them as if they'll notice my appreciation. Mastiff sighting! Huge, wrinkly, pensive looking as he watches passerby. "He must have had his smarts brought up too high", a reference to our practice of rubbing Chaucy's "smart bump" every morning in accordance with what he'll need that day.
Cluster of actual sit-down restaurants. I don't feel like shopping around; there are too many people, it's starting to feel complicated, let's just go here. So we go here. Outside table, sure, we can seat you right away - only there's no alcohol served outside. Hm, okay.
We're arguing. Are we arguing? What happened? What am I annoyed about? Indecision, confusion, we were on a track but you suggested something else. My brain gets overloaded. I want to copilot together. We eat in silence, each nursing a pointless anger. Turkey burger's really good; I feel guilty on top of everything that I'm Not Speaking To You Right Now or I'd share a bite. It's really damn good.
Meal goes mercifully fast, though we bicker a good five minutes more, clomping back down a suddenly sparser path. Maybe everyone heard us fighting and decided to clear off. Don't blame them. But now we're getting somewhere. Something's been unlocked. Was it you? Usually you. You have more keys than me. And now we're hugging, clinging actually, two is stronger than one against this wind. It's made your face red, the wind. Mine too, that means. So goes the selfie.
What are we talking about? Us? Today? The little bump we hit or the landscape of the whole mountain. It doesn't feel like it matters, because we've made ourselves understood. You asked me what I remember from my teenage visit. I told you there was something I wanted, that I didn't get - a piece of jewelry, something cheap and silly that made an impression on me. I'd planned to go back to the shop and buy it but for some reason I didn't. "Let's try to find it," you say. As if we could. But my god how sweet.
For a moment we just stand there, hanging in the space between pain and peace. The wind is a wingman, conspiring to push us together. A guy in dreads stands on a tree stump, silhouetted against the sunset, twirling balls on a rope. What's that called? You see it sometimes at festivals. Just for the fun of it. Just for the thrill of balance and coordination. It must relax the mind. It relaxes me to watch him. A pretty young couple hop up on stumps beside him. He's going to teach them how to do it, I think. But I won't know for sure because now we're in a candy shop.
Gummi bears. Every last motherfucking kind of gummi bear.
Now. Now we're ready. I unlace my tennis shoes, dropping them into the tote. Holy fuck the sand is cold. But it's an unspoken rule: you have to go to the water, no matter what. Touch it or don't but you have to at least get close to it. Wrapping the blanket around me, trying to anyway. The wind turns it turns into a sail, slowing me down while you charge ahead. Hipstamatic time. I shake and tap, shake and tap. Random pairings of film and lens. You are so photogenic. And you love the seagulls, who make you laugh as we return to the paved walkway. You think they're playing, showing off as they ride the breeze. And they might be, baby. They might be.
The sun is really dipping now, and the temperature. We're dragging our feet back to where we turned in from the street. We should probably go home. I veer off here and there to take pictures. Shake and tap. I've missed this app so much. Why did I ever stop?
And then we hear it. I've been listening for minutes now without realizing, but you extend your hand. Look. Out there. I can't comprehend what I'm seeing. Some mass on the sand, towards the water. Something. I can't understand at first what you do right away: it's a huge group of people. A hundred or more. "It's a drum circle." But I'm incredulous. No way. What? Why? Just a bunch of strangers huddled together like that? "A sunset drum circle," you repeat. "I've seen them here before."
And just like that, we're off, running to join them. Running, running, running, the expanse between us and them feels endless. Why are we running? Because we didn't have a choice, feels like. So dry, blank, cold, colorless even with the sun radiating across the water, rushing now it seems, to say goodnight. You're faster, several feet ahead of me, though you look back and we laugh, breathless. What is this? What's happening? A pair of teenage boys passes us, leaving the beating throng. "You should go in there," they say, smiling big. "It's really fun." They mean the center of everyone, which now that we're upon it is like a slow-shifting animal with a single throbbing heartbeat.
Dozens of drums sound, though we can only see a few. Tambourines. Even a whistle. The crowd is locked in tight in the middle, looser at the edges. We watch, wordless. Women in sarongs sway and whip their hair. Men with crossed arms stand stolidly as if at attention. I try to be as unobtrusive as possible, sneaking a few photos. You hold me, and quietly we agree that this is the closet we'll probably ever get to Burning Man. And that's okay.
Time to go home. The last drops of light stretch our shadows across cold sand. The houses a safe block away from the chaos are cheery yellows and blues, but they look sleepy. One final look back: everything dark save for a daub of pink on the horizon. A short visit, but intense. I'm glad we came.
Coachella 2015
April 24, 2015
I get to the festival as early as I can, which isn't early at all. Late afternoon, pulling into a nearly full parking lot with a steady stream of locals. One by one we're directed into rows before stepping hesitantly out into the sweltering sun. Car doors hang open, roofs too hot to touch. Last minute sunblock applications, swigs of water, stashing of contraband. Rallying, summoning the final day's worth of energy. Let's do this.
We troop, heads drooping in the heat, in clusters, crews, or by ourselves along a dirt path that goes on and on, not ending when you think it should. Another turn, another five minute stretch. Pedicabs manned by red-faced cyclists wheel by, carting the hot and tired, the lazy, the impatient. 'Scuse me guys. 'Scuse me. On your left. Each equipped with an mp3 player, trailing competing snippets of rap or metal or hiphop, which in turn compete with the massive, booming bass floating from the festival grounds.
More walking. Something wet hits my face. A girl, skipping a few feet ahead of her friends, is blowing bubbles from an oversized wand. They shimmer and hang in the air, fat as tennis balls, before bursting at the touch of outstretched hands. I distractedly note the prevalence of English accents in the bits of conversation that reach me. Always so many British visitors to Coachella. I wonder with envy how many of them will be at Glastonbury.
A perfunctory security check: my torso is loosely patted and my bag glanced in, but my zipped wallet is ignored. And then I'm in. The sights, sounds, smells are all familiar by this point. There's less buzzing in my gut, less anxiousness to consume everything than there used to be. I feel like I can relax, wander and dip into things at will. Only a few of today's acts are favorites of mine, and they're staggered widely across tonight's schedule. No pressure. Easy.
I buy two bottles of water, wiping them dry before dropping them into my backpack, and a peach smoothie, which I suck down in the five minutes it takes me to walk the long way around to the Sahara tent. I'd peeked at the app the night before, so I already knew a couple of the art installations, but I wanted to see them up close anyway. Stupid of me to have looked. Coachella doesn't hold that many surprises and whatever form the main structure takes every year is one of them. This season it's a caterpillar, reared up so its segmented belly and legs are exposed. Four stories high, yellow and black stripes, spindly antennae askew on its head. Creepy and wonderful.
Sahara is relatively empty. This time of the day, sunlight beams straight inside, pressing brutally on shoulders and cheeks that have already seen too much of it over the weekend. But as always, the sound is irresistible, and under the huge, hangar-shaped dome whose framework is covered in speakers and lights, the die-hards dance. I've come here first on purpose, to soak up some of their vibe. My favorite tent, Sahara is where you go to be shamelessly joyous, to jump and laugh and dance alongside strangers who don't give a shit how well you do it. Some engage communally: millennials who giddily sing to one another familiar refrains of chart-topping EDM songs. Some are lost in themselves, watching their own frantic feet try to catch the beat.
This is the music they've been listening to all year, or longer: on the radio, at the beach, in the car on the way to the club where they'll hear it again. The anthems of their generation. These songs are in their blood and under their skin, and the thrill of hearing them live rips from somewhere deep inside and shudders through their bodies. Multiply that bliss by several thousand, and you understand Sahara's magnetic pull—the feeling of being a part of something epic.
Full of smoothie, still getting my festival legs, I move a little bit but mostly just watch and listen. The tent starts to fill up, kids in scraps of clothing are bounding in by the dozen, high-fiving and hugging when they recognize one another. A girl with blonde hair twisted into corn rows bounces around playfully with her friends; they all bear the beat-up, sunburned, happily exhausted look of campers. The girl's glassy expression and slight stumble give her away: she's wasted. A tap on her shoulder; she turns to greet a shirtless coed with wavy, jaw-length hair that looks expensively cut. He's doesn't say anything, just gives her a sheepish look that she returns with a wordless hug. The way they hang on one another, swaying for several second with her arms tight around his neck and his hands lightly on her back, suggests longtime friendship. I imagine endless late night talks in dorm rooms. Gossip and secrets. Deep platonic affection. He starts to speak but she puts a finger to his lips, shushing, shaking her head. Her lips are easy to read: It's okay. I love you. The drunken drama of the scene would be comical at a bar but for some reason, here the moment is unspeakably sweet. The pair has obviously had a big fight, maybe one that lasted all weekend, maybe something that embroiled their friends (who are watching and smiling approvingly) and cast a pall over the whole party. But now, on the last day, buoyed by friendship and a soundtrack that will squeeze their hearts every time they hear it—they are making up. This is Coachella.
---
A little while later I'm waiting to watch Ryan Adams. His appearance here—his first ever at Coachella—is one of the reasons I was willing to trade four hours of driving for eight hours of music. I've never seen him perform but I've been a fan for fifteen years, and his music is fraught with emotional significance for me. I score the last wedge of elbow room along the VIP railing, where I can watch those with wristbands twice as expensive as mine dribble in and leisurely plant themselves feet from the stage. They all seem to know another; their hairstyles, outfits, and general looks speak of The Industry. I keep my eyes peeled for celebrities and the few musician's faces I'd recognize, but then everyone starts to look famous, so I turn my attention those nearer to me. Trying to guess who's a true fan and who just likes being up close.
It doesn't take more than a minute to start chatting up another fan, and another festival lover; she hasn't missed a single Coachella. I high-five her, marveling, but she explains that living in Indio makes it easy. "What was the best year?" I ask.
She answers without hesitating: "Two thousand four. Radiohead. And the Pixies reunited." Her date looks bored. I ask him if he's a big Ryan Adams fan. "Oh no, I had to drag him out here," she laughs. I confess I've never seen Ryan Adams live and she seems excited for me. We compare notes on what we're hoping to hear and suddenly another woman is joining the conversation. Between us we cover three different generations.
And then he's on. His voice is effortless perfection, twang and honey that coasts smoothly across ballads he jokingly describes as "self-antagonizing." I don't know all of the tracks he plays—he's been producing for a long time—but it doesn't matter. Fifteen years fold away and I'm instantly back in Tucson, circa 2000, back to who and what I was. And I'm not alone; ghosts whose company I don't mind are with me, too. Listening and remembering, I could cry. Instead I breathe deeply until the constriction in my chest loosens. It's the best singer-songwriter set I've ever seen at a festival.
---
Sunset. Kaskade, on the main stage. How many tens of thousands coming to watch, I don't know. But they're running, it seems like they are all running. Even those already here are swept up in the excitement: the opening blasts of bass, of bouncing lights it's finally dim enough to appreciate. Jockeying to get closer, to get in the mix, in the thick of it. Twirling and jumping on one another's shoulders, you've never seen so many people so intoxicated by music, by their own existence. Two girls in flower headbands cross arms and spin like children, throwing their heads back and laughing with abandon. The grounds and everything on them are saturated in the last bits of sunlight, all that is brightly colored turned pastel in the haze. It's the in-betweenland of dusk, where flashes of neon start to emerge, to blaze and catch your eye. I dodge through the chaos to find my own sweet spot. Close enough but not too close. And then, for a little bit, I become part of the chaos.
---
Alice has taken her pill. It hits her stomach with a big swallow of water and a promise to herself: I will be smart. She is mindful, taking in her surroundings, appreciating every curve and beam of the massive statues she walks under. Metal? Fiberglass? She doesn't know how they're made, only that soon they'll recede into a sort of wallpaper, the pattern of which will cease to be as interesting as what's inside her own mind. And she wants to remember, before she forgets.
The pill's gelatin capsule has already dissolved; it won't be long now. Alice needs to decide where she wants to be when the wave hits. She never knows how big the wave will be, but she always plans for big waves. A glance at her watch; timing is everything. But the music isn't right where she's at, where she thought it would be best. No, it's jumpy and shallow and just...wrong. So she ducks into a different place, cooler and darker and covered, separate and more secret.
It's a big wave. Alice feels her heart pound and takes deep, gulping breaths. As much as she wants to dance, to let the music carry some of the pill off, she can't. The water is up to her neck. She retreats to the wall, carefully lowering her pulsing body to the floor. She hates having to give up these precious moments, she desperately wants to flow with the music, which is incredible, but she has no choice. Breathe. Breathe. For the fifth time she makes sure she has everything she needs.
Alice watches the others. She'll live through them, for a few minutes, until she can wade back in and join. A couple, two young men, directly in front of her. Light strobes across the face of one, then the other. They look almost painful in their bliss, lifting their heads to the sound, eyes closed, moving both as one and as two. The rightness of the scene, the wholeness of it, is a thing for Alice to hang on to. From the outside, she looks blank. Numb, even. But inside her body is a welling of ecstasy so powerful that blankness is all she can spare. Every cell overflowing with elation. So huge, this wave. She could get carried away.
Alice has taken her pill, and now the pill is taking her.
---
Jamie XX. A sexy, mellow heaven. A hammock for my overstimulated brain. Exactly what I needed, when I needed it.
---
Gesaffelstein. Hol-y shit. Never have I. I mean, I knew a little bit. Couple tracks on my running playlist. But I had no idea how unbelievable he is. Later Terence, when I showed him some of his Weekend 1 set, would describe it like Depeche Mode, if Depeche Mode did EDM. Yes.
What kills me is that I walked away from him twice. I was drifting around between a few different stages, undecided and uncommitted, and each time I walked by I heard how great he sounded. But it wasn't until my third pass that I planted myself at the back of the tent and didn't move until it was over. If you like glitchy or hard electronic at all, please do yourself a favor and listen to the entire video I linked to above. Or at least from 8:10 on. It is ridiculous. It's also his last performance, ever. Which makes me incredibly grateful to have seen it.
Danced my damn face off. At one point some guy doing the same thing right in front of me turned around, as if looking desperately for someone, anyone who was feeling the music the same way. He saw me, gestured towards the stage, and sort of just shook his head in wonder. "Right??" I said, laughing incredulously, glad I wasn't the only one who'd had no idea. I mean, I hate to diminish what I felt at Ryan Adams, but this was definitely my favorite set of the day. Wicked, wicked fun.
---
It's 1:15 am. I left the festival over an hour ago. But I'm still in the parking lot. I'm still in the parking lot because I Can't. Find. My. Car. I've been looking for it for over an hour. Things I'm feeling: shame, stupidity, frustration, exhaustion, fear, and resignation. I am fully prepared to be here until dawn, until there's enough light to finally see it. As best I can tell that is exactly what I'm headed for.
Did I make a note of where I parked? Yep. I wrote down the section and even took a few pictures of landmarks nearby. Did I put a pin in my GPS? Nope. That I did not do. So now I am walking up and down every last aisle of the section I parked in, systematically, in the dark and in the dust, trying not to cry.
And I succeed, up until the moment I ask some guys leaning against their trunk if they have an iPhone charger I can borrow. I'm on 3%. Not that calling anyone would help. Terence is fast asleep and has work early; I'd die before I woke him up with the news that I lost his car. I strongly consider calling Mason, who I've been texting with during the night, just for the moral support, knowing he'll laugh at my predicament until I do, until I'm calm. But really, what I need more than a charger is to just find the goddamn car. They don't have a charger, anyway. Back to searching.
Up and down, up and down. Row by row. Exiting drivers glance at me sympathetically as they merge into long lines to leave. Over and over I hit the fob, hoping to see tell-tale brake lights pop up nearby. Nothing. It has vanished. I've already had to stop once, return to the festival in a pedicab to use the bathroom, and make the trek back out to the parking lot. The attendants feel bad but there's not much they can do. I'm not the only one, after all. In the hazy moonlight I see others staggering about—though in groups of two or more. I seem to be the only solo car-loser. Fucked. I am so fucked.
"Did you find your car?" A figure is walking toward me, silhouetted against the gritty night. "I found mine, finally. Did you find yours?"
I glance around. "Are you talking to me?"
"Yeah." Close enough to make out now. Thirty-something. Dark hair, eyes, skin. T-shirt and shorts. His face is open and friendly, but sort of spaced out. He's not exactly looking at me.
"No." I lean over, defeated, resting my hands on thighs. "I've been out here for an hour."
He shakes his head. "No, no. That's a long time. I'm going to help you." Seeing my tears start, the desperation melting into gratitude that someone, anyone, gives a fuck, he shushes me soothingly. I half expect him to try to hug me but he doesn't. Instead he jerks his head towards an Audi a few feet away, headlamps glowing. "We're going to do this mathematically, okay?"
I nod. "You're the nicest person," I start. "I don't know--"
"No, it's alright. This happened to me Friday. It's the worst. We'll find your car, okay? This is my car. We're going to use my car as home base and work from it."
"I took pictures," I tell him. "I took pictures when I got out of my car. Of where I was."
He lights up, like a teacher happily surprised by a student he'd written off. "Perfect! That's great! See, now you're thinking. Let's see them." I don't tell him that my phone's about to die, afraid that if he grasps how bad the situation is he'll flee. Two percent now. If it dies, maybe he'll have a charger. I open my photos and pass the phone over.
"Oh see this is great! Look, this line of trees in the picture, where is this line of trees? Can we see a line of trees anywhere?" This guy has definitely got to be a teacher. Elementary school, even. He pivots where we stand, trying to match up reality with my snapshot.
But I'm useless. The line of palm trees I thought I was looking for don't make sense relative to where I know I parked. I'm turned around and disoriented and oh wow, he's pulling a joint out of his pocket now. Lighting it.
"Cannabis," he announces, as if he just likes saying the word. He examines the joint thoughtfully and then takes a drag. I brace myself for the offer, which I'll feel rude rejecting at this point—but it doesn't come. My savior is not sharing his weed. "Do you know it's 4/20 tomorrow? I mean if you're gonna be lost that's as good a day as any, right?"
The spaced-out look makes sense now. I laugh, trying not to think about him driving high, on the freeway home. Myself, I've been sober for almost three hours; the last hour, brutally so. He asks me where I'm from and we make small talk while he looks at my phone, then squints around the dark parking lot, then looks back at my phone. "I don't think you're in this lot."
And so I'm not. I'm in the next lot over, which we get to though an opening in the fences dividing them. Terence's car sits maybe a hundred feet from where I'd been pacing. Just right there, waiting for me. My knees go weak at the sight of it, and I realize I don't know my companion's name.
"Kumar. It's Kumar."
The next minute with Kumar is kind of a bummer. Thanking him profusely isn't enough. Neither is my offer of $20, which I quickly explain that I don't mean as an insult. "Please, just get a lunch on me tomorrow or something. I'm so grateful." But whether it was the hit of pot or whether Kumar is actually, after all, a bit of a creep, I don't know. But suddenly I'm being pressured into a hug from which I'm not immediately released.
"Come onnnnn, it's Coachella," he whines, when explain I have to go. Big drive, boyfriend's waiting, etc. I disentangle myself from Kumar's arms, though not before he grabs my ass.
I'm annoyed and anxious to leave but as he walks off I call after him. "Are you okay to find your car now?" Without turning around he waves a hand over his shoulder, dismissing me. Having refused the knight's advance, the damsel in distress no longer interests him.
"Happy Coachella!" I say anyway. "And thank you!"
I sit in the car for a full minute, reveling in my relief, before texting Terence. His phone is off; he won't hear it. But just in case he wakes up, I want him to know I'm coming home.
Moonlight
April 30, 2015
I'm driving down a backcountry road, somewhere off the map and unfamiliar. New terrain. Nothing especially striking about the landscape, though occasionally I'm surprised by a pretty vista. But I'm whizzing along, no time to stop, so these sights are just what I glimpse in passing. The main thing is the road. Staying on the road.
I'm alone, of course. Everything I need in a sturdy suitcase, perched on the backseat. I can see it out of the corner of my eye, and it reassures me. Everything I need is here.
Suddenly, something feels off. Alignment? Suspension? I can't tell exactly, I don't know mechanics that well. I only know the drive isn't as smooth as it was a few miles back. I'm tempted to push it, to gun for the next milestone, but experience has taught me that can spell disaster. I have to stop. I have to see what's wrong.
So I pull over and spend some time kidding myself I can figure out the problem. I circle the car. Inspect the tires. Peer under the hood. I walk several yards away to scrutinize from a distance, as if a bit of perspective might reveal the issue. But whatever it is, it sits deep inside my car, secret and silent and out of reach.
I drive on. It isn't safe to stay in the dead, dark of night, in a strange place. Because out of nowhere it is dark, and cold. Shivering, I remember my suitcase. Everything I need.
But then it's worse. The car is shaking so badly I can't trust it anymore. In what feels like it could be the last decision I'll ever make, I stop again. Make the same rounds. Tires. Hood. This time with a heavy dose of self-recrimination. If only I'd learned more about the car. If only I'd taught myself how to fix it. If only I'd taken another road.
I want to believe that someone will come along and help. But I'm so far from the main highway that it's doubtful. My isolation feels like a punishment for too many crimes to face here alone, in the quiet. With only stars for company and moonlight as witness.
It's time to find out how well I packed.
Derby
May 7, 2015
Kentucky Derby banquet and viewing party thing, at the LA Athletic Club. We're not members, but Kross is. Figured what the hell. We'll wear goofy hats, suck down a few mint juleps, root for the horse with the best name. An excellent excuse to day drink with friends, anyway.
I get there first, see Kerry waiting at the bar. No hat. Plain black shift dress. Looking annoyed. The club is terribly understaffed. Always takes ages to get a drink. The woman working the entrance accepts my cash and cuffs me in a flimsy wristband I'll lose within five minutes; I stuff Terence's, along with his free drink coupon, into my clutch. A clutch seemed in order, to go with the pleated woven dress someone must have secretly clipped a good four inches off over the winter. I feel naked. Adjusting my headband, where a hot pink silk dahlia blooms on an inch of netting, I decide not to give Kerry hell for her lack of costume. But it was her idea.
"Ross is grumpy," she informs me by way of greeting.
"The dress looks great!" I respond. It's an Anthro score she texted me about a couple nights ago. I didn't realize she was going to wear it today. But no amount of tugging on my hem is going to change how short and silly my own is. Time to cash in that free drink coupon.
Back at their table, which sits adjacent to the massive projection screen showing pre-race festivities, Ross picks at a plate of traditional derby fare, as interpreted by the LAAC. Finger sandwiches, pigs in a blanket, fried chicken. Kerry has waited for me to eat, and after setting our drinks down, we hit the buffet. Everything I put on my plate looks brown and dry and wilted.
Remembering the KP Health Action Notice I received via email a few days back, I add a couple spoonfuls of cut strawberries. Slightly elevated, I'd read, my jaw nearly hitting the keyboard as I scanned the results of my blood work. Cut back on fried foods, cheese, and butter. Immediately I'd sent a screenshot of the message to Mason, my partner in thyroid disease, dadlessness, and now, apparently, high cholesterol. He'd only just found out about his a few weeks before.
OMG we're fucking twins, he replied.
Ridiculous, I texted back. Caught me completely off guard.
Meet you at Furr's at 4:15 for dinner.
(Cracks about getting older figure heavily into our conversations these days. We even have a hashtag for it: #goodforty, coined by the twenty-something girl who, while flirting with him, assured Mason he was "the good forty".)
The strawberries turn out to be the best thing on the plate anyway.
We catch up, the only real news since we've seen one another last being our respective vet visits. I tell them about Chaucer's mysterious panting episode; they brief me on their cat's medical issues. We are all of us mortal: canine, feline, human. I don't mention my elevated cholesterol, which depresses me. Makes me feel old. Kerry is turning forty-five just days before I turn forty. Big year for both of us. When I'd offered to plan something for her birthday she'd answered, with typical frankness, "Well you can try, but I don't know if I'll want to do it." I've missed her.
Terence arrives and settles in. He feels out of the loop, coming late. Scooches his riveted leather chair close to the table. "What'd I miss?" I've prepared a plate for him since, absurdly, the food is already being pulled. The race hasn't even started and they're shutting down the party. Breaking a sugar cookie in half, I assure him he hasn't missed much. We've barely started drinking and haven't picked our horses yet. I finish the cookie and have another.
Ross hands me a printout of the race stats. I ignore the odds and read the names aloud. "Upstart" is my favorite. He points out how much Terence, ever the good sport and clad in a salmon-colored bow tie with matching suspenders we picked up for $20 in the Fashion District, resembles Bill Nye. Kerry nearly spit-takes her julep. But I'm not satisfied until Terence poses for a pic, perfectly imitating a photo of Nye I pull up on Google images. It's spot on. Also terribly unflattering. I text a side-by-side to him and everyone we know. The four of us giggle like idiots, barely aware of what's happening in Kentucky. The day has officially begun.
There's a costume contest, organized by an upsettingly perky woman whose dirty blonde hair matches the wide brimmed, beribboned hat she's cocked just so. Her entire getup is as beige as the brunch on my plate but much prettier. And she knows it. Flashing a flirtatious smile, she saunters around the room, drawing the suspense out. "Whoooo will it be? Who will be our best. Dressed. Womannnn?" Kerry and I roll our eyes. By now we've all decided this was an overpriced dud of an event at best and at worst an alarming display of privilege. Several women are wearing the kind of expensive Gainsborough hats I saw the day before in the Fashion District, selling for over $100. I feel guilty enough about my headband, which I talked the shopkeeper down to $20.
The race is over in the blink of an eye. Excited shouts, laughter from the more raucous tables near the bar, then it's done. The crowd clears out quickly, leaving the dining hall zapped of energy. But we've got coupons for the "Specialty Punch" being served at whiskey bar next door, so after Terence and I make an ill-advised stop by the photo booth, that's where we head.
Seven Grand is making a good show of it, for a Saturday afternoon. Most everyone there is dressed up, too, which makes Terence feel a little better about his ridiculous ensemble. Such a good sport. Me, I've about forgotten my headband and miniscule frock. Or I'm just too liquored up to care.
We stay long enough to collect our free punch, which isn't half bad, and for me to say hello to a bartender I know. Old roommate of an ex-boyfriend. It's an embarrassing conversation.
Hey! (For the life of me I can't remember his name.)
Hey! (I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember mine, either. Thank god.)
How's it going? You guys out for the derby?
Yeah, yeah! Day drinking, you know.
The awkwardest of nods and silences ensues.
So, how's living with ___? (Holy fuck, did I just say that? Am I that drunk?)
Oh, we don't live together anymore. He moved out. Still my best friend, though. (This last feels like a warning.)
Let me start over. (I shake my head as if to clear the slate.) How are YOU? What's new with YOU? (He laughs.) So obnoxious. That was so obnoxious of me! (He laughs more, shrugging it off. He's a good guy.)
Good, good. Doing the ___ and the ___ and working for ____. Which is cool because I get to ____. (I nod emphatically, feeling mortified, and make some inane comment to show I'm paying attention.)
Well, great to see you! (His name comes to me, and I use it, hoping it doesn't sound like an afterthought.)
Yeah, you too! You look great! (He gestures to my dress, headband.) Really, looking awesome. (I think I hear a trace of begrudging surprise in his voice, and I wonder, drunkenly, what that's about. No matter. Ancient history. I'm a different person now, with different LDL levels and everything.)
We take an Uber to Villain's Tavern, and the rest blurs a bit. Sitting outside in the sun, at our regular table. We have a regular table, I inwardly marvel, with these friends of ours. That is a thing to be grateful for.
We talk for almost two hours, slowly losing sunshine and heat. Bacon cheddar fries to share; today is not a day for minding Health Action Notices. Several trips to the bar for cocktails the bartender takes a stupidly long time to prepare, packing them with extra shaved ice to disguise how underfilled they are. In the bathroom, Kerry and I argue over whether or not the mirror is "skinny" and which of us has the worse throat wattle. Back outside she deletes the group photos we take (No, no, terrible, ugh, no...) but shoots a selfie before handing my phone back to me.There.
Later when we're waiting for another Uber, the four of us stand close together, pairing up tightly for warmth. Where did this cold come from?? A young family is having a photo shoot feet from where we wait. They must have wanted the Arts District backdrop—brick walls, wide alleys, industrial cool. Two impossibly blonde little girls mug and twirl for the camera, the younger one clearly more comfortable in front of the lens. Kerry, semi-wasted, is fascinated by them. "Look at their hair. Look at it! Ellie! What happens to blond hair? It doesn't stay that shiny and perfect!"
"You have the exact same color hair," I point out. And she does.
"Yeah but I pay hundreds of dollars for it."
Next up is dinner: Mexican food in Silver Lake. Margaritas we drink on the rocks, but with glasses of ice served on the side. Someone figured out you get more alcohol this way, and we've stuck with it ever since. Enchiladas: cheese for Ross and Terence, chicken for Kerry and I. An argument breaks out. Familiar territory for us—woo woo, superstition, psychic powers and whether there's life after death. Sides form, as usual. Two against two. I complain, begging them to knock it off. They know I hate getting into this shit. I storm off to the bathroom. "You guys can talk about this all you want, but you know where I stand, and you know I hate arguing with you. I love you guys too much. I don't want to do this again." When I come back it's still going. Gets more heated. Too much alcohol today, too sensitive a topic. Do you guys not think that I'd love to talk to my mom and my dad? That I'd pay anything for just an hour's worth of conversation?? It's not. Fucking. Possible. So what's all theoretical for you? Not so much for me. Tears. First me, then Kerry, in sympathy.
"Ellie, none of us knows what that's like. None of us has lost a parent." She's conciliatory, dabbing her eyes. I try to explain it's not a competition, that's not what I meant. Holy fuck are we drunk. Somebody hands me a napkin. Terence tries to wrap his arm around my waist, but he's on the wrong side of this whole thing, and I'm furious. We catch our breaths, pay the check, and stumble back outside into the cold, shocked and quiet at the turn the night has taken.
In the Uber home I'm sandwiched between Ross and Kerry, who plays with my hair and squeezes my arm every few minutes. We're all of us rattled but I'm the most far gone. Before leaving the restaurant I'd made them promise we'd leave this topic alone once and for all but we can't take back the nastiness that's already been aired.
Next day, I fire off an apologetic text to them both. Sorry, Jesus. Terence and I are so different that sometimes I just latch on to those differences. Both answer, making jokes. It's all good. We've been friends for four years now and it's all good. We know it was drunken bullshit, and it's already funny in retrospect.
The nice thing about getting older: our friends get older right along with us. And the nice thing about going through shit is that some of it we go through with them. Our pets get sick. We get sick. We face down milestone birthdays and high cholesterol. We confront fading hair color, ghosts from the past, and fears from the present. And we do it together, because it's so much better that way. Drinks in hand, dumb hats on head, we race towards the end together.
In Six
May 22, 2015
1. the tweet
A hint dropped, by a musician we love. English singer/songwriter we saw at Coachella last year and whose scream-along populist ballads get me through housework. He's doing a secret show tonight, just like Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist! Somewhere in Hollywood. Piece of cake—train ride away. We set him to mobile notifications and track the game until one of his followers cracks it: Madame Siam, a speakeasy near Vine. Perfect. You nap; I'll paint my nails dark blue. Yes, let's definitely get there early. Bet bigger fans than us will be around the block.
2. the scramble
Went for a run and now I'm running late. Goddamn it, why can I never manage my time? Can't decide what to wear. You zip me into a long sleeve dress—it's cold but I don't want to mess with a jacket. Nope. Too hot, too constrictive. Cropped tank and jeans? Good god no. Whose clothes are these? Where is that girl? I haven't seen her in ages. Fuck it. T-shirt, jeans, bomber, sneaks. It's Frank Turner, FFS. You sing and fix yourself a drink, in a fantastic mood that levels me out. I toss my own back and it's time go, now, we've got to get moving. Running to the subway. Running back to the apartment; I forgot something. Running to the subway again. No trains to NoHo from here tonight? What the ever loving fuck? What are the chances? We hop a bus to the next station. On the way over, I fill you in on my web adventures the night before. My new obsession: slaughterhouses, factory farms, meat packing, Temple Grandin. Captive bolt stunners, livestock behavior, restraints, bloodspotting, the whole nine. I tell you some of what I've learned, the good and the bad. Back out on the street, running again, a text comes. Holy shit. Kerry and Ross have won a trip to Japan?!
3. the wait
Bigger fans indeed have beat us there; we won't be getting a spot up front, that's for certain. Blame the Metro, but really we should have known. A solid hour's wait, in the cold. But our mood is fantastic, bubbly and giggly. The way you hold me, and kiss my cheek if I look at you too long and smile. Where did this come from? So nice. This. So easy. Your affection, the playfulness. I am so lucky. We read tweets and watch videos. We text Kerry back, joke with our neighbors in line, and cuddle in the cold. You offer to go grab us pizza. I'd rather wait, hungry as I am. It's all lovely though. Such a great space we're in. Hi. I missed you.
4. the show
I make a beeline for the stage while you get drinks. I can't get too close, but I don't begrudge those in front of me; they know every single word to every single song. True fans, they have my respect. We end up against a bit of brick wall, not more than five feet back. You've got something to lean against, and now so do I. Depending on whether I know the lyrics, whether I can belt them out along with the others, I jump and dance and fist pump—or I melt back into you. Hearing you at my cheek, watching this performer we both love. This is a really, really good night for us. Frank's brilliant, of course. The music matched by his jokes and stories, the way he flirts with the crowd like an old flame he'll never get over. He loves us. We love him. We are all of us drunk. He is a poet. And I tell him this, afterward, in his ear while you sneak a picture though I told you not to take one. Poor guy is wasted and exhausted, only a few hours off a plane. But I had to meet him. Don't know when I'll ever get the chance again. "You're my favorite poet" I say, and draw back a bit to see him smile. "And my favorite discovery of the past few years. You inspire the writer in me and I hope to someday see you across the pond, too." Holy shit I got it all out without stumbling. Thank you, vodka. He is grateful. Says it means a lot. Or something. Not sure; I was still pretty nervous. He's thinner than I'd thought. Taller, too. Let's go get pizza, baby.
5. the pizza
We go to my favorite place, even though it's already late and you have such an early morning. Two huge slices of cheese that we eat on the steps of the El Capitan, as is our tradition. Tim Allen's star at your feet, Roger Ebert's at mine. People watching. You can't beat Hollywood people watching. Post-mortem on the show. You're embarrassed by what you said to him ("Great show, man") because you think it was lame. But it was sweet and perfect. Something magical about seeing him hug you thanks, this stranger who's nevertheless meant so much to me, and you. Two of my favorite musicians. We should have taken a photo, we agree. Together, with him sandwiched in between. A Frankwich. Next time. Maybe across the pond, even. Crust isn't very good tonight. Let's go. But I'm still hungry? Ghiradelli? Yes! But once inside I change my mind. We skedaddle with our free squares of chocolate and head to the station. You are wiped out, poor thing. Way too long a day for you, with way too little sleep.
6. the train
I'm in the most comfortable plastic seat in the world, sinking sleepily into your shoulder. Selfies, in between yawns. You're so damn beautiful. So was tonight.
Anesthetic
May 27, 2022
Dentist this afternoon. Three cavities filled, because apparently I've been using powdered sugar as toothpaste. Gotta look into that. I'd canceled my three previously scheduled appointments since I am a huge baby (though in my defense the last time I let the dentist lay hands on me I got dry socket), so I couldn't say a word today when they kept me waiting a solid forty-five minutes before starting.
The exam rooms at my dentist's office aren't divided by walls; they're just small, recessed inlets off of a main walkway. This makes it easier for the staff to step in and out of each patient area quickly, so they can manage multiple appointments at once. It also allows everyone to hear what's going on with everyone else. Drilling, cries of pain, diagnoses of gum disease... It's all very democratic.
Today in the "room" beside mine was an elderly woman, whose face I could see when I turned to my left, which I did exactly once. Scraggly grey hair, clean-faced, threadbare cardigan. She had a dreamy, faraway smile that suggested nitrous, but it was clear from the encouraging words of her companion (who I could hear sitting at her feet) that she wasn't high. Just not there, exactly. Alzheimer's perhaps, or dementia? I don't know. The middle-aged male voice - which kept calling her Drea and telling her how brave she was - had a patronizing quality and an unnecessary loudness that set my already-nervous teeth on edge. I wondered whether there wasn't some part of Drea, still perfectly lucid, that hoped he would shut the hell up.
With nothing else to do, I texted Terence a play-by-play. He just said, "She likes to smile, and she likes to chew, too! Doesn't she? DON'T YOU, DREA?"
Jesus, said Terence. Plot twist: he's actually in the chair in a dress talking about himself.
Now he asked the dentist and assistant if they mind if he takes a picture of them working on her. WTF. He's talking to her like she's four and promising her a Starbucks cookie and I want to cry.
Poor Terence, who was probably waiting for my own work to start so he could take a nap, didn't know what to say. It's like a bad show and you can't change the channel.
I feel awful for her, I said, adding a frown. She's terrified, I said, though I had no way of knowing if that was true. Then I repeated the mantra I'd been saying all day, to stave off my dental visit dread: Joshua Tree, Bonnaroo, Lake Burton. Joshua Tree, Bonnaroo, Lake Burton. Joshua Tree...
- - -
My fillings were surprisingly quick and painless, and I was on the train back downtown within forty minutes. I absolutely hate having my face numb, though, so as soon I got home I Googled ways to dispel the anesthetic faster. One site said increased blood flow helps, as from exercise. But I hadn't eaten anything so a run was out of the question. I threw some soup on the stove and edited photos from the weekend while I waited. When the soup was hot, I poured myself a steaming bowl and retreated into a big, cozy chair. But when I tried to blow on the soup to cool it, the muscles around my mouth just bunched up stiffly; I was still too numb. Panic crept in. What if something's wrong? What if they made a terrible mistake and my face is stuck like this forever? I slurped a spoonful of soup and the slackness of my jaw was unbearable. Exactly how a stroke victim would feel, I realized.
I knew everything would come back to me, if I just waited a little bit longer. I'm still waiting, though. Poking my cheek with my tongue, grimacing and puckering and getting quizzical looks from Chaucer.
We could probably both use a run.
Joshua Tree
June 3, 2015
We were giddy on the drive out. A feeling of escape, of slinking early out of school to get the jump on summer recess. The backseat was piled high: bags, groceries, blankets, pillows. We'd packed light, clothing-wise, but had brought plenty of creature comforts from home. We previewed festival music, joking and dancing in our seats as I poked around on Spotify. Being out of the city had unburdened us, and the quickness with which we sometimes fall to bickering evaporated. Companionabilty eased into the space left behind.
Southwestern desert looks and feels the same no matter which state you're in. "It's exactly like Tucson," I informed Terence, who's never been, but who has mentioned wanting to see my Arizona roots. "Now we don't have to go." Around sunset we passed through town—a scraggly stretch of strip malls, antiques shops, saloons. We stopped to get a few more food items; I wanted to fix pasta for dinner, to fuel up for hiking the next day. Terence foraged in produce while I wandered down the breakfast aisle. When he found me a few minutes later, I was staring blankly at a box of cereal. I'd been distracted by the music playing in the store: Willie Nelson's version of City of New Orleans. I turned to Terence and tried to explain, but choked up before the words got free. "My dad loved this song."
Forty was a birthday I'd love to have shared with him. My mom, too. Their reassurances that I was doing okay, that the middle isn't the end, would not have gone amiss.
The house we rented was nestled up against a small mountain ridge about half a mile from the highway. It shared a dirt road turnoff with a smattering of other homes, each spaced a respectful distance apart. Breathing room for everyone, privacy for all. The property had a name: Sandpiper, "a hideaway in Panorama Heights". By the time we pulled up to Sandpiper's standalone garage (past an electronic gate requiring a passcode for entrance), I was already unbuckled and half out the door. The sun was starting to set the western horizon ablaze, and I couldn't wait to take its picture. There's nothing like a desert sunset. Nothing in the world.
Terence unloaded the car while I made ever widening circles around the yard, snapping photos, reconsidering angles, then snapping more. Joshua Tree gave us a stunning welcome, showing off with a fiery display of purple, blue, and orange. Perishables put away, Terence joined me on the dusty driveway. "Do you like it?" he asked, a question rendered absurd by the smile on my face.
"It's perfect."
"It's so quiet," he said. "I feel like my body is melting."
Inside, the rooms were even more spacious and minimal than they'd appeared on the website. Mid-century modern with a healthy dose of quirk. The front sunroom, the feature that had sold us, was lined on three sides with windows whose gauzy curtains we pulled immediately, letting dusk seep heavily into the space. The silence, intense after the constant din of downtown, felt like a third guest.
After a quick tour of the rental and the discovery that neither of us were hungry yet, we went back outside. Equipped with a flashlight, we climbed atop one of the loveseat-sized boulders to the side of the carport and sat watching headlights on the freeway. Our nearest neighbor was puttering around in a quaint little shack just down the hill; we could hear him clearly through open windows. We talked, our voices low in automatic reverence for the beauty around us. We listened to the desert. I put my head against Terence's shoulder and in the warm night air we plotted our next two days.
I was already itching to explore, though. We were on the edge of the park, minutes from the main entrance, but I was anxious to see it spread out before me. My suspicion was that if we got over the ridge behind the house we'd see, illuminated by a nearly-full moon, an expanse of land covered in brush and cactus and crawling with invisible wildlife. I convinced Terence it would be safe. "Snakes are most active at dusk and dawn," I lied, more to myself than to him. I hadn't spent fourteen years in a climate I'd loathed only to be scared of it now. "We just need another flashlight."
But another flashlight wasn't to be found, though we checked several drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. Terence lit up, remembering something, and I followed him out to the car where from the trunk he pulled a small tote bag. "It's a windup radio," he explained, unsheathing what looked like an old-fashioned transistor radio. "And it has a light. It's from RH," he said sheepishly.
"You and your gadgets." But it was the perfect prop to dispel the tension on our dangerous, dark trek. As we carefully picked our way along the rocky path, Terence continually wound the little radio. It would reward his efforts with ten or fifteen seconds of Christian rock and weak light from a bulb on the side. We laughed every time the music faded and he had to re-crank the handle, which whirred and whined painfully. Before we knew it, we'd reached a clearing about two hundred feet above the house. The moon flooded the ridge with an eerie glow.
"What about coyotes?" he asked suddenly. "And mountain lions?"
"You're such a city boy," I teased, but I was secretly glad for an excuse to turn around. The desert will always be in my bones, I'll always feel at home there—but it's treacherous and callous in the extreme. I'd collected the bites, bruises, and twisted ankles to prove it.
Back in the house, we realized we were too hungry to start cooking. We opted for the quick fix of cereal, which we ate side by side on one of the retro floor lounges in the sunroom. There were two of these lounges, which were a cross between a futon and a recliner, with massively thick white vinyl cushions on adjustable wooden frames. These lounges would be where I'd spend most of my LSD trip the next day—where I'd cling in terror and gasp in wonder, mere minutes between the two extremes. For now, though, they were where we planned tomorrow's hikes.
Our next day figured out, I wanted to go back outside again. The sultry desert night was intoxicating; I'd missed it so much. But first Terence wanted to give me my birthday presents, which he did in the cooler, smaller spare bedroom. Lights off—less pressure that way. Blue moonlight spilling across two gift boxes. The first held a delicate silver bar necklace—I'd been wanting one for ages. The second, a slippery handful of midnight blue satin and black eyelash lace. Kiki de Montparnasse. Another something I'd always wanted.
Later, when we realized the master bedroom was too hot to sleep in, we dragged the sunroom lounges into the colder living room and lay down on those. We shut the lights and put our heads together in the dark, our bodies separated by the gap between cold plastic cushions. Terence played the ukulele he'd brought, and I marveled not for the first time at his ability to play an instrument without looking at it. "What time is it?" he asked drowsily.
"Go to sleep," I ordered, knowing he was exhausted from an early morning, and from the drive.
"What time is it?" he repeated stubbornly.
I sighed and rolled over to grab my phone off the floor. "Eleven thirty. You'll never make it."
He plucked at the ukulele and looked over my shoulder as I scrolled through the day's photos. We talked about Chaucer, whom Krista was keeping watch over back at home. We luxuriated in the quiet, so exotic-seeming. We looked out the windows at alien shapes: porch lamps and joshua trees with long, lanky shadows. "The cactus have so much emotion," he said. "They look like people." Then, a moment later: "What time is it?"
I reached for my phone again. Midnight exactly. We laughed. The ukulele started up again. "Happy Birthday to you..."
After Terence fell asleep, I wandered from room to room, thinking about my half-life ahead and how it will different from the one I just finished. I took my phone into the bedroom to read Krista's birthday message, a list of 40 reasons she's thankful for me. I hadn't yet mustered up the strength to look at it, fearing it would overwhelm me. Which it did.
For a few minutes I just lay on the bed, absorbing. Knowing she'd be asleep with the ringer off, I texted her. All the good things you see in me you recognize because you have them too.
It took me hours to fall asleep. Might have been the green tea I had at lunch, or might have been the million thoughts I'd accidentally packed along with my hiking boots.
Terence woke me with more ukulele, then coffee. "I saved you the better mug," he declared.
"Why is it better? Is there Bailey's in it?"
"No," he said, "but it has coyotes on it." He sang me a song he made up on the spot, about a sandpiper who'd come to tell us how much Chaucer missed us. It was adorable and I made him immediately record it on his phone while I brushed my teeth.
We dawdled, lazy in the thrall of our first real vacation together. Much of the morning we spent in the sunroom, sipping coffee and discussing our creative lives. We had a very long, very emotional talk about art—what constitutes it, and what does not.
It was early afternoon before we left for the park. We hit Arch Rock, then Barker's Dam, then just stopped here and there as we pleased, slowly making our way through to the opposite entrance. The trails we chose were short and easy; we wanted to reserve some daylight for later.
The desert was beautiful to me in a way it never had been when I lived there. The dry, acrid air; the scarcity of green that I used to hate; the hot dust settling into my pores—it was all strangely seductive. We scrambled up and over boulders, pausing to take in the view and catch our breath. We shimmied through slots tight enough to merit nervous jokes about getting stuck. We clomped through thorny tangles of boot-sticky spurs to reach picturesque petroglyphs. We took sweaty selfies and slow-motion videos. We got hungry and punchy. And after three hours of exploring Joshua Tree, we decided to head back to the house for the other big adventure of our weekend: my first LSD trip.
Blood and Brains
June 9, 2015
When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots? - Shel Silverstein
- - -
I was unsure about dosage, that was the first problem.
As prepared as I was—as I thought I was, rather—mentally, physically, logistically, I'd never actually handled LSD beyond purchasing it from Kenny, my drug dealer who wasn’t really a drug dealer, and stuffing it into the back of a drawer for safekeeping. I had two kinds: paper and liquid. Both were wrapped in small pieces of foil, presumably secure from the spoiling effects of air, heat, moisture. Really, I had no idea, because I'd never so much as looked at the stuff. I'd just bought it sight unseen, figuring when the time came I could consult my young provider for guidance. Which is exactly what I tried to do.
I texted Kenny at 6:15 pm. Hey, got a sec? But Kenny was busy doing whatever it is he does in between selling me psychoactive drugs. Terence and I were on our own.
We opted for the blotter paper, which was at least divided into obvious, square-shaped portions. (By contrast, the rubber band-thin "ten strip" of liquid acid had no delineating marks. Determining where one hit ended and the next started looked to be a matter of pure guesswork.) There were three squares of paper, which corresponded with my vague recollection of having bought that amount over a year earlier. Why I bought three instead of two or four or even just one, I have no idea. Maybe I thought I wanted a spare, in case I lost one? Without any further thought or discussion—we'd agreed earlier that I would take more than Terence, since it was my idea, my birthday wish, my funeral, etc.—I tore the paper, handed my boyfriend one third of it and popped the other two thirds into my mouth.
It was awful. Terribly, startlingly bitter—how I imagine battery acid would taste. We winced, surprised at just how bad it was. Terence plucked the soggy square from his tongue after a few moments. "Nuah!" I barked, my mouth gone numb with chemical. "Youah haf to ret it dissov alla way!" The one thing I knew for sure is that the blotter paper must be allowed to disintegrate completely. Watching one another with eyes wide but lips pursed shut, we let the drug work its way into our blood and brains.
Still holding the softened squares on my tongue, I went to take a shower.
Intention. A big part of successful drug use is finding—feeling—good intention. That's what I focused on, as I washed the grime of the day's hiking from my hair. I felt one hundred percent sure that I was going to have a positive experience. That having controlled my "set and setting" (the who and where of tripping, said to be of tremendous importance), I was already ahead of the game. And maybe I would have been, if the game had been based in anything resembling reality. But it wasn't. And as I was about to learn, not only did I not know the rules or the objective of this game—for much of the next several hours, I wouldn't even understand I was playing it.
It set in quickly. Much, much more quickly than I'd been expecting. Showered and dressed, we'd decided to sit on the front stoop, take in the desert dusk, let things unfold organically. Hilariously, I'd put on my fuzzy bear hat. Not quite a spirit hood, but a close cousin. I guess I thought it would make me feel adventurous, or playful, or even animalistic. But within minutes I'd forgotten I was even wearing it. Within minutes the clothes on my body, so carefully considered when I packed, were comically unimportant.
An upright, oblong, ridged planter in the yard was a cockroach. The change wasn't sudden....because there wasn't any change at all. It had always been a cockroach. Segmented. Humanoid. Taunting. The spindly fauna that shot up from behind it formed perfect antenna. Again, this wasn't a matter of something becoming, or seeming to become different, in the way that psilocybin gently rolls out hallucinations. This was just fact. A new reality. There was a massive, live stone cockroach watching me, feet from where I stood, and there was no unseeing it. No unknowing it.
I tried to shift my attention to the breeze rustling through the trees, to the dusty glow settling over the boulders that cradled the estate. But no matter where I redirected my thoughts, it was like grasping the shifting mechanism on an amusement park ride—like being granted the briefest glimpse of control before getting wrenched sharply back onto the track. No question: I was a passenger, not a driver. It was then that an inkling of what I was in for dawned on me. Big. This is bigger. Bigger than I. Wow. This is.
I tried to play along. I walked over to the waist-high planter, smiling determinedly as I pointed the creature out to Terence. "Do you see it? It's a bug! Look, do you see it?" The question seemed stupid as I spoke it. Of course he saw it. He had to. It was as real and clear as the sky above. But Terence was already slipping down his own slide, and any intuition with which he might have soberly grasped my state of mind (i.e., Anxiety trying not to acknowledge Fear peering in the window) had melted away with his blotter paper.
"Do you like insects?" he replied, and to my already apprehensive self that was exactly the wrong question. It felt like a dare, or maybe a warning. Like he was purposefully trying to wedge open a window I didn't want opened. No I do not fucking like insects. All at once I was unbearably dizzy.
"I'm going inside," I announced, feeling defeated by my body load, disappointed at already having to forfeit the beauty of our surroundings. The whole point. Joshua Tree. Sunset's coming. The whole point was to. Terence offered to join me but I pointed at him severely, then swept my hand out in reference to the landscape around us. "No. You stay put. I just need a minute."
I shut the door behind me and took a few wobbly steps into an empty, silent house. It gave me all of ten seconds, I'd say, before beginning to breathe, bulge, pulse and twist in a way that made it clear any authority I'd had on psychedelics was about to be shred to bits. Colorful, beautiful, terrifying, wondrous, unforgettable bits.
II
The fire and the rose, as it were, became one. - Federico Fellini
- - -
Twenty minutes into my first acid trip, I realized that the heavily stylized filmic interpretations of LSD experiences I'd been watching all my life were not the exaggerations I'd always assumed them to be. They were in fact faithful representations. Walls really did drip. Edges really did bleed. Color and shape really did squeeze one another until it felt like my brain was folding in on itself, my consciousness slipping and sliding endlessly, with nothing firm or real enough to hold onto.
Terence (who by now had also come back inside) tells me that for several minutes, in the beginning, he watched my face transform with wonder as I stared, mouth agape, at various objects around the house shifting and morphing. Paintings, lamps, chairs. And I remember this. I remember smiling, squinting in curiosity, laughing. And in those moments when it got too intense, I verbally reminded myself that I wasn't new to hallucinations. "It's a good thing I've taken shrooms before," I said loudly, like a bragging child. "Because this is like...you know?" He knew.
LSD plays with time, expanding or compressing it as, I guess, one's brain sees fit. There was a moment early on when Terence was right beside me and then snap! he was on the other side of the house, seemingly instantly. On the other hand, the two to three hours of "bad" tripping I did was interminable. But whether I was in a state of stability, sublimity, or hell, time divided itself up into what I'd later refer to as "segments". I recollect what I experienced sensorily, emotionally, and psychologically in these chunks of time. I suppose they are how my brain decided to make sense of what it went through. A library of tiny little multi-dimensional videos, filed neatly away in my mind. Fucking amazing, really.
One of the first segments felt like a conspiracy between color and geometry. Every surface burst into hexagons, or maybe heptagons? I remember thinking of chicken wire. And I do mean every surface, including skin—my own and Terence's. And no sooner had I noticed the pattern on our bodies than it was scales. Reptilian. A little weird, but nothing I couldn't handle. The scales began to lift and develop dimensionality. You know how it looks when you add a drop shadow to an object, in graphic design? That's what it was like. Only the shadow peeking out from underneath was both color and light. (One note I wrote soon afterward reads "it was like someone was using the pucker and bloat tools right behind my eyes".)
And then this segment—which was like an orientation to LSD's visual aspects—chopped itself up into smaller pieces of time, so there'd be minutes at a stretch where every surface was outlined in lime green and hot pink heptagons. Then electric blue and lavender ones.
Then suddenly the color/pattern visuals evaporated and everything went fuzzy and staticky, as if I'd been sucked into a television set left on after programming ended. Silvery-grey, glinting, snowy. I remember seeing Terence just a few feet away from me, made of the stuff. It was beautiful and so strange, and I marveled at the moment. I marveled at all of it. It really is like this. It really is the rabbit hole. I had no idea. No idea at all.
But for all the beauty, it was also incredibly overwhelming. Every second was more disorienting than the last. The air was thick, heavy, vibrating. I'd compare it to being underwater with your eyes open, just below the surface. Waves blurring the view when you look up at the sunny sky. Now imagine you can't get back above the water. You can breathe somehow, that's not the issue. But everything you know as normal and real—the world you want to get back to—is out of reach. And in fact you're sinking deeper, and you know you're going to stay under for a very long time. Can you handle it? Or will you freak out?
I freaked out.
No amount of telling myself that I was prepared for this helped. I was in over my head and I was scared. Deep down I knew I had a long night ahead of me, but I didn't want to face that. So instead I tried to speed things up. I chugged water, trying to flush the drug through my system. (It only refreshed the sour taste of it on my tongue, which, probably psychosomatically, then just refreshed the intensity of the experience.) I asked Terence over and over: "How long, do you think? How long will it last?" And I threw up. A lot. Gotta hand it to my body. The acid hadn't gone through my digestive system—it wasn't sitting in my stomach, it was coursing through my veins. But on some level my body knew to try and reject what I'd given it, in the only way it could.
Poor Terence. He had no idea what was happening with me. He says he realized pretty quickly that I was in a bad way. Indeed, I sensed his anxiety, despite the reassuring tone he adopted, and it made things exponentially worse for me. I grew panicky. What the fuck were we doing? We were in the middle of the desert, hours from anyone we knew. This is bad, I thought. This is really...this is bad.
It was about this time that I started singing my LSD song.
I call it a song now, because later I came to see it as such. As something funny and sort of poetically, tragically beautiful. But really, it was just a series of questions and statements. Questions and statements that I said over and over and over again, because I was lost and frightened and desperately trying to find a thread of reality to cling to. Because truly, I thought I'd lost my mind.
Well, that's not exactly right. I thought I'd broken my mind. Overdosed. Unhinged it, with toxic chemicals. Damaged it beyond repair. Do you know what it's like to be utterly and completely convinced that you're going to be committed to an insane asylum? I do, now.
Fucking. Terrifying. Beyond words terrifying. Mad. I've gone mad. That's it. It's over. Everything I had, everything I knew. Gone. I could see it already. Straightjacket. Wheelchair. Padded room. Oh, it's so sad about Ellie. She was so smart, so talented. Just a drooling mess now. I could imagine their pity, their revulsion. Deeper and deeper I sank in my conviction that it was just a matter of time. I wasn't coming back. I wouldn't be normal again. I'd be forever lost to my former self and former life, gazing outward at it, locked within the hell of my splintered mind. Heartbroken. For several of the darkest seconds of my life, I knew that had there been a gun in front of me, I might have tried to shoot myself.
But while 99% of me was sure that life as I'd known it was over, there was, deep within my brain, a bell ringing. Faintly, so fainty, I could hear it. Its ring was the promise of normalcy. A remembrance of it, far away through space and time. Some tiny part of me knew that this was just an experience, and it would eventually end. But that bell, oh my god it was so heartwrenchingly quiet, so unconvincing. .....ding.......ding..... I wanted to believe in it, more than anything I wanted to trust it, but the counterbalance of what the acid was doing made it so. very. difficult.
"Did I break my brain?" That was the first line of the song. And every "no" answer was a ring of the bell. I asked Terence this, over and over and over. He patiently reassured me I did not. But I was still falling down, down, and I didn't believe him. I scrambled for my phone.
"Are you looking at pictures?" he asked encouragingly.
"No," I said flatly, trying to focus on the electric blur of numbers before my eyes. "I have to call Mason. Will you call him for me?"
Of course he would, understanding that in this moment of unbearable fear, I'd need the friend who's gotten me through a dozen other moments of unbearable fear. I needed my friend of almost twenty years, and I needed him right fucking now.
"Yo," he answered.
"Mase," I blurted, putting him on speakerphone. "Mase, I'm in Joshua Tree, and I took LSD, and I'm really scared I took too much. Please help me. I don't know what to do."
And so it began. The phone conversation that would shape the next several hours of my first acid trip. The conversation that would color and inform my experience, give it meaning and structure and even a theme. Simply put: friendship. Friendship on the most profound, breathtakingly beautiful level imaginable.
But first back to the song.
Naturally, Mason did everything in his power to calm and comfort me, from the bar in Las Vegas where he happened to be that Saturday night. (Yep, that's right. Me and my two hundred micrograms of lysergic acid diethylamide parachuted in to my dearest, oldest friend's vacation smack in the middle of Sin City and hijacked the shit out of it. Not a single peep of complaint, the entire two and a half hours I kept him on the phone. Ladies and gentlemen, that is what you call a friend.) He told me I was going to be fine. That if I'd taken too much, I wouldn't be talking to him now. That Terence sounded coherent and sober enough to judge whether or not I really needed to go to the hospital, and they agreed I did not. That I just had to relax and buckle in for the ride. That everything was okay.
Still, I needed to hear the same mantra of assurances repeated time and again.
"Did I break my brain?" (no)
"Am I going to survive?" (yeah)
"I'm so scared..." (you're gonna be fine)
"What about dehydration?" (that's just the drug)
Wispy threads though they seemed, they were a lifeline to me as I dangled in the abyss. And so these questions I asked, combined with the answers I was given, became like a song over the course of the night. And it kept me alive. And if that sounds crazy, I understand. But if not for the anchor which was Mason's voice holding me safely in place, in that beautiful house in the desert, I don't know what I might have done in that first couple of hours. But it probably would have involved fleeing my own boyfriend and running out into the dark, dangerous night, desperate for help and relief. I know I wouldn't have even made it ten steps outside without falling to the ground, though, because I was physically incapacitated by the drug. I probably would have just lay down in the dirt and screamed.
This story is getting away from itself, I know, but holy hell is it hard to explain everything that was happening at once. But here's how to picture me in these moments: pinned to the cool white vinyl lounge chairs we'd flattened and pushed together in the living room. On them was a mess of blankets that I rolled around on, clutching the edges of the cushions for dear life, as I frantically tried to get my psychological bearings. I was terribly thirsty but didn't feel like I could drink. I was nauseous and dizzy and disoriented, and nowhere that I looked made it any easier. I had a dim awareness of Terence moving around the room, getting water, trying to help me. But looking at him only freaked me out more; his skin was unnaturally alive, shifting and oozing as if liquid. The shape of his face was distorted and ugly, and I turned away in fear that image would imprint itself permanently in my mind. All I could do was stare at the phone, at the letters of Mason's name which glowed white in the slow-settling dusk. A life raft. His voice a rope thrown to me on an ocean of fire.
Fire. That was another thing. So hot. Not my body, which was cool, pleasantly chilly even, from air conditioning that felt like wind moving through the house. But my brain boiled with the heat of too much...everything. Too much color and light, too much fear, too much resistance. Because oh my god, was I ever resisting. Mason called it out. "Listen to me," he said. "Are you listening?" I was. "You have to stop fighting it."
A surge of fresh terror. "I can't!" How could I make him understand the depths of hell that awaited me, if I'd just give in to them? "Mase, I can't. It's too much!"
"Listen to my voice," he continued firmly. "You know this. You know this because you've done drugs before. If you fight it, it's going to be a lot harder. Just give in and let it happen."
I knew he was right, of course. I knew the only way out was through. But oh my god. The way my mind was melting, sucking the rest of me down into it. The helplessness was utterly terrifying. What would I find there, if I did let go? Where would I go? Letting go felt like jumping blindly into a black hole. Less giving in than giving up—on reality, and on sanity. (From my notes afterward: sanity a placemat that kept shifting under my brain.)
It didn't matter, though. It didn't matter one bit whether I wanted to resist or embrace the LSD that was blazing new neural pathways faster than I could take a breath. I was approaching my peak and any ideas I had about controlling or guiding my experience were long, long gone. I could no sooner stop what was happening than stop a roller coaster, mid-loop.
But the good thing about roller coasters is they go up, as much as they go down.
III
Everything was love. Everything will be love. Everything has been love. Everything would be love. Everything would have been love. Ah, that was it, the truth at last. Everything would have been love. - Iris Murdoch
- - -
I'm starting to understand. There's no going back. There's no stopping or even slowing down. All the scrambling I've been doing to stay above the surface is wasted energy. I have no choice but to sink. Breathe and sink. The nausea has subsided. Fear is still here, but really all I'm afraid of is how intense it is. I'm starting to understand that it will end, that I will be okay. In fact I am okay, right now. This is what I wanted, after all. It's not what I expected, it's so much bigger and deeper and brighter and breathtaking—but it's not going to kill me. My song changes: a tiny bloom of hope, of humor and light in the dark.
"Mason! Mason!" (I'm here)
"Did I break my brain?" (no)
"Did I...did I just open it a little wider?" (hahaha...yes)
"Am I going to survive?" (yeah)
"I'm so scared" (you're gonna be fine)
"What about dehydration" (that's just the drug)
"I'm on an acid trip!" (haha, that's right)
"Is this going to make a good story?" (oh yeah)
"Am I in a story now?" (yep)
Minutes go by, and I'm not sure if they feel more like hours or seconds. The most important things are remembering to breathe and refreshing my lifeline—asking for reassurance. But even speaking has become nearly impossible, because my mind is now continually dropping down through a series of trap doors. Or rather, my consciousness. The most essential, purest part of me. Just when I think it can't possibly go further, it does. I'm a galaxy away from home, where home = the regular bounds of perception.
There is a poverty of language to describe what I'm beginning to experience, and what will continue on in my brain, for the next several hours. It isn't thought, and and isn't feeling. It's more than vision or belief or emotion. The word that comes closest to explaining is "awareness", but even that isn't right. What's happening is so powerful and awe-inspiring that all I can do is retreat to a corner of my own self, sit quietly, arms wrapped around my knees, and watch in amazement.
I am starting to understand how much more there is.
And there is so, so, so much more than I ever could have dreamed.
What you know of the real world, of everyday life. What if you could encapsulate it, hold it in your hands like a crystal sphere? Say to yourself, This. This is what I know to be true and real. These are all the experiences of my lifetime and also all that remains possible, for the rest of it.
And what if inside that sphere was another sphere, which contained another, which contained another. An infinite nesting of alternate realities, where the deeper you go, the more would be revealed to you. You wouldn't be able to explain the things you learned. You could only accept and marvel, humbled by the hugeness of it all. It leaves you breathless, awestruck, grateful. It's moving so fast, filling you up and dazzling you, making your heart pound, leaving you limp in its wake. You're coasting around in your own mind, blindingly fast, seeing its million tiny folds and pockets, all at a glance. There is a whole other universe inside your brain. You had no idea. No idea.
Meanwhile, there is still the outside world, solidly in the acid's grip. You've reached a point where you can take it in. It is no longer a nightmare. It is. It is. Oh my god it is.
Beautiful.
You lift your spinning head from where you've been cowering, and you see. And you feel.
Color. That is the first thing.
You timed it perfectly. Sunset. You chose the perfect place. A home with windows all around. This sunset—how will you make them understand? It's a painting, an impressionist painting that the house sits inside. Streaky clouds wrap themselves all around it. Pinks, blues, purples. It is a living thing, this sunset. It is part of the story. Is it telling the story?
It's unbearable. Your heart might break, it is so beautiful. Pinks, blues, purples. These colors will stay with you forever. Indelible. You will always choose them, you will always go back to them. You will seek them out, clothe yourself in them, fill your home with them, tint your photographs to match them. Unforgettable. You didn't even like purple before today. Now it is forever emblematic of this night, a secret wink of the rainbow. I know what you did, what you saw. I was there and I'll remember. I'll remind you.
And there's the wind. It isn't wind, of course. It's just air conditioning circulating through the house, strong as it is, set to high. But you think it's wind, right now. You think you and Terence and the entire home have been swept up in a current of it, are floating on it, it moves through the house and through you, lifting everything up to a higher plane. Nothing has ever felt so good. The edge of chill, almost almost almost too cold but not. And it has a sound, a song like yours. Wind was never so loud, filling your ears, roaring and rushing like a waterfall.
The shifts are almost violent in suddenness. One moment I'll be on the upswing of some blissful burst of perception, the next I'll be dropped into a mire of anxiety. And it all has to do with the call I'm still on.
Mason. Speakerphone. Vegas.
Talking me through it. Not angry at all. Patient, sympathetic—even amused. When I feel these positive emotions coming through the phone, I am calm, even giddy. Able to laugh about the craziness of what I'm doing. But the second I sense frustration or annoyance or even just fatigue, I panic. And plummet, psychologically. And all of this is manifested in my physical view of the phone itself. When I perceive all is well, it appears radiant, throwing off beautiful sparks of light, his name at the top pulsing with reassuring life. And wondrously: hot to the touch. When I grow fearful that he's bored or antsy, wishing to end the call, the phone darkens ominously, grows icy cold like steel in winter.
And then.
The first breakthrough of true, of real, of unspeakable, heart-stopping joy. Out of nowhere. A lighting bolt that splits me, shatters the crystal sphere into a billion pieces. And as those pieces rush to reassemble themselves, they become something new. A chandelier. A crystal chandelier that is lighting my—me—everything - up in the most beautiful (I can't), breathtaking (Oh god, is it possible?) way imaginable.
I gasp. My mind gasps. My heart gasps. It cannot possibly be real, this much joy. It cannot possibly. I cry out, singing my song, because now more than ever I need to believe that I really am alive and okay, because I had no idea—no idea that—
"Mason! Mason!" (I'm here)
"Did I break my brain?" (no)
"I'm on an acid trip!" (yeah you are)
"Is this going to make a good story?" (yep)
"Am I in a story now?" (sure are)
"Oh my god, I am. I am! And it's so beautiful! Do you see? Do you see?? It's. so. beautiful...."
It doesn't last. There are dips. Some of these lows are pure horror, still. But slowly, the frequency with which I am rocketed back up to peaks of sublimity increases.
And now I'm faced with the task of making you understand what was on some of those peaks.
Take the word "happiness." Plant it in a garden. Water it and tend to it until it bears fruit. Take the seed of that fruit and plant it in another garden. Repeat this process over and over for your entire life, and maybe—maybe—at the end of it, a word will grow and bloom, descended from the word "happiness" (but so far removed from it as to be unrecognizable) that will capture what it was like on those peaks.
IV
How thin and insecure is that little beach of white sand we call consciousness. - Athol Fugard
Life has many doors! - Kenny
- - -
You have to start at the bottom, if they're going to appreciate what the top was like.
You have to describe that dark, ugly place. You have to be honest. Tell them about the three square feet of hallway between the bathroom and the living room. The space where, for several agonizing minutes (are you sure? are you sure it was only minutes?) you huddled, comatose with fear. Imprisoned by the certainty of insanity. Tell them about the taste of vomit in your mouth. About the spongy, putrid green loops of the bathmat inches from your face. How they quivered disgustingly, like fat, hairy caterpillars. How squashed and humiliated you felt, admitting to yourself that despite all your grand plans, you were having a bad trip.
Tell them how you prayed for it to be over. Oh god please, please just let this end. How you swore you'd never touch LSD again, and how you kept asking Terence why anyone would ever do this to themselves. How you made him swear that the two of you would never speak of it again. Okay? Promise?
I promise, baby. I promise.
Not my drug you announced, with forced lightheartedness. It'll be okay, though. No big deal. And now I know. Not my drug. But even as you said all this, your heart was seizing up with dread, because you knew you'd only just stepped inside the funhouse. And the door was locking behind you. And the timer had just been set, with twelve. hours. to go.
Make sure they grasp the unspeakable terror. The wretched paranoia. The crushing hopelessness. All accompanied, of course, by the massive bewilderment that is LSD's perception mindfuck. Everything you think you know about the physical world, about yourself, about life itself—nope. That stuff isn't here right now, sorry. Please call again later. Don't forget to mention fractals, those collusions of blackness and color that swallowed you up the instant you closed your eyes. How suffocating they were, and how inescapable.
Okay. Now let that part go.
Now tell them about the rest.
I'm screaming.
I'm screaming and laughing at the same time. I've never made this sound before. Terence has never heard anyone make this sound before. There are tears running down my face, but they're not the sad kind. If you heard me from a room away, you'd probably think someone I love had died. There's a quality to my cries that I recognize, even as they pour out of me: inconsolableness. But what I'm actually experiencing is in fact profound acceptance. Inversely related cousins, if you think about it.
I'm in the throes of pure, psychological ecstasy—what I'll later call a consciousness-gasm, because that's the only way I can describe it. It's unlike anything I've ever known or dreamed of knowing. I'm crying out, because I can't keep it inside of me. Oh my god oh my god I cry, and I am wracked with disbelieving sobs. It's so beautiful! It's...so...beautiful... I know without a doubt that nothing in my life will ever compare to this moment. Nothing will ever be as true and perfect and sublime. I could live a hundred lifetimes and nothing I could ever see or feel could touch this. Wonderment. Discovery. Understanding. Validation. Love.
I'm peaking.
Thunderbolts of revelation are slicing through me and sending out ripple after ripple of joy. It started with the realization of how lucky am, to have a friend to help me through this experience. Gratitude, but on a level that nearly devastates. The beautiful thing that is my friendship with Mason—it is blinding me with happiness, as my mind stretches to appreciate, in a split second's flash, nearly two decades of laughter and Platonic love.
For the first time ever I see the whole glorious arc of it, this friendship. The universe has few more precious gifts to offer, I understand that now. A hundred thousand moments that have led up to this one. Astoundingly, he seems to understand, too. I ask him if he sees it, and when he says he does, it's like we're reciting the lines of an ancient script. We're reenacting a story that has existed since long before we were ever born. And I know that if I die tomorrow, this amazing, precious friendship will stand as one of the most beautiful things I've ever made.
And this understanding ripples outward.
It ripples out to the bigger picture of my life, and who I am as a person. My very place in the universe. And oh my god, I see now. I see that I belong. I see that I what I have to give this world matters. I see that I have a purpose. My mind clears and a vision of myself emerges fr the void. Still I can see it perfectly. In this vision I'm beautiful in all the ways I've always wanted to be. A sort of spirit-self. I see myself laughing, my face in profile, as if looking at a loved one. In fact I know I'm surrounded by people who love me. I can feel all the ways that they appreciate me, that they see the good in me. It is a kind of validation, this vision, but more profound than anything I can try to relate with words, now. As if the universe pulled back a curtain, gave me just the tiniest, dazzling peek. Okay, Ellie. You want to know? You want to see? This is who you are.
It's breathtaking. Self-love. Self-acceptance. A shell around my heart cracks, so it can grow a little bit bigger.
And then there is Terence.
Oh my god. I cannot. It will kill me, if I look it full in the face. His love. The sweetness. His purity and kindness. His peacefulness. It astonishes me, how evolved and good he is. There was never anything so. Never anything.
All of this comes and goes in degrees of varying intensity for about an hour. It's coupled with the most exquisite sense of visual "blooming" imaginable. The pinks, blues, purples I mentioned before spread out behind Terence, a backdrop the beauty of which a poet gifted with the languages of a thousand worlds could not capture.
LSD: Justifying Hyperbole since 1943.
My song changes one last time.
"Mason! Mason!"
"Oh my god, do you see it? Do you see it?"
"It's so beautiful. It's perfect."
"Do I love LSD? Do I hate it?"
"This is changing my life."
At some point, Kenny calls. Seeing his name infuses me with delight and gratitude. I realize he's calling to make sure I'm okay. He's gotten my text from earlier and probably remembered I was going to do LSD for my birthday, and is now checking in. My twenty-five year old drug dealer is a really good fucking guy.
Terence laughs as grinning, I grab up the phone. "Kenny!" I cry. "Kenny, are you there?!"
"Ellie, what up girl." I can hear he's grinning, too.
"Kenny you have to write this down. Okay? This is very important. You have to get a pen. Do you have a pen?" He laughs and I hear shuffling. I've tipped my hand. He knows I'm flying. I laugh, too, and continue, my voice like a kid's on Christmas morning. "You. This! Kenny I'm having the most incredible experience of my life. And you made it happen. You did this for me. And I will never forget it. LSD is the most. I can't. You did this!"
Kenny is greatly amused, but I can tell he's really happy for me. "Awww, girl. I'm so glad you're having a good time. Enjoy!" I end the call and beam at Terence. This too is unbearably beautiful.
The next day Kenny will text. Love you!
Dude, I answer. I had no idea. Life changing.
Life has many doors! he replies back, and I just smile.
Denouement.
A slow, gently rocking comedown. Hours have gone by. Lifetimes in each. We hold one another in the front room, watching the moonlit highway. Blues the likes of which I didn't know existed. Perception is still liquidy, still upended and murky...but the twists and turns have leveled off enough to bearable. Pretty. Playful. Unthreatening. This was an experience. This was not real life. I'm going to be myself again. Wow. I did it.
......wow.
Terence slips outside to meditate under the stars. I lay shellshocked in the living room, gathering back into myself a billion slivers of wonder. I'm awed by how much I remember. In fact it's all wondrously vivid. I pledge to write as much as I can, as soon as I can. Even just loose notes. Charged with drug-induced hubris, I'm determined to get people closer to this experience than anyone else has so far. I'll write entire books if I have to. They need to know. But every minute that goes by I realize more and more that the magic box I've just been inside can only be understood by those who've climbed inside as well.
After Terence drifts off to sleep anxiety takes one last, fierce stab at me. Menacing shadows. Paranoia. Ready for it all to end, but the drug is lingering. I shed the last layers of fear over the next couple of hours while Terence dreams beside me. I put on headphones and listen to Sam Harris's essay on drugs again. I consider writing him a letter.
At sunrise, I go outside. The cool desert air hits my skin exactly like it did yesterday, but I feel reborn. I know I'll never be the same. I know that whatever I face, the rest of my life, I have this strength to call on. Staring down the demons that live inside of me, scraping myself along the edge of sanity inch by inch, hopeless and unsure what I was even fighting for. And then the reward. The secrets I was shown. The beauty I cannot reproduce for you here, on this page, even though I would give anything to. The glimpse of the world within, and what it holds for willing explorers.
Forty years. I know nothing.
My Dog’s Heart
June 15, 2015
The first time Terence, Chaucer and I went for an Epic Walk together, I was less than impressed by his performance. Terence's, I mean. He walked too slow, for one thing, ambling and distracted by the sights. He didn't hold the leash correctly when I passed it off. And worst of all, he complained about a bit of drool Chaucer got on his pants. You do not complain about Chaucer drool when you are trying to impress Ellie, oh no you do not.
Terence had gone on short walks with us together before that, but this was his first Epic Walk. EW's are serious business around here. Up through the financial district, a fetch session at the John Ferraro Building, then down through the park to socialize in the dog play area before heading home. Sometimes we add in stops at Walt Disney Hall or the pool at Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. All of it sacred space for Chaucer and I, a long-established, much treasured path we've perfected in our years downtown—years during which Chaucer saw me through a divorce, the deaths of both parents, a handful of breakups (romantic or otherwise), a broken foot, dry socket, and a host of depressive episodes. The least I can do for him is give him a nice, long, stimulating and tiring walk, whenever I have the time. Hence were born Epic Walks— my dogspeak thank you for seven years of constant companionship.
Then Terence came along and screwed everything up by making us both fall in love with him.
Chaucer didn't make it easy, in the beginning. Doleful stares from the side of the bed, inches from our faces. His expression clear: I don't know about you, buddy. I don't know about you at all. It can't have been easy to break into the space between me and my dog, I know that. It is very, very narrow, that space. Even on my worst days, when I'm at my lowest and most withdrawn, I still have endless cuddles and kisses and affection for Chaucer—and he is the only creature on this planet who can make that claim. I love my dog with a fierceness that is knowable only to those who have experienced grief. One part terror of losing yet another thing. One part knowing that loss is inevitable. All parts soaking up each minute with him gratefully. So, so gratefully.
But in spite of how intimidating my attachment to Chaucer may have been, Terence opened his heart to him—all 130lbs of him. He came to know and accept Chaucer's quirks and challenges, and to even find the humor and joy in them. He learned Chaucer's schedule, got familiar with his needs, and started helping me with the daily chores of dog ownership. He was endlessly patient with me as I insisted on the particular, precise ways in which things needed to be done for Chaucer, because I am a pain in the ass but also because I want my dog to have stability and routine, so he feels relaxed and comfortable. Slowly Terence took on a greater role in Chaucer's care until one day I realized that he's got it. I never have to worry when I'm not around. My dog will always be fed, walked, safe, and loved. For his part, Chaucer fell as fast as I did. He grew to trust the man in our life, who was gentle and calm and never raised his voice. Add in tug-o-war and treats, affection and attention...and Chaucer's trust soon turned into love.
None of this was expected. I've always firmly believed: my dog, my responsibility. I'd come to accept that messy Mastiffs are not for everyone. And I honestly would have been happy had Terence just tolerated the very big place that Chaucer takes up in my home and in my heart. The fact that the two of them have moved far past friendship is a thing I never would have dreamed of.
We have our own secret language, the three of us. Silly voices that no outsider will ever hear. Inside jokes and memes and made-up songs and references some of which are a year deep. All the things we express to one another wordlessly. Cuddling in a heap on the floor, on the bed, weekend mornings or movie nights. Our hands touching as we stroke his broad, soft back. It's hard for me to use the f-word, so much invisible and implied weight attached to it. But when we're all laying together like that, it feels more like an f-word than I've felt in a long, long time.
Loving Chaucer is loving me by extension. And every bit of love that Terence pours onto my dog I feel my heart swell with twice as much to give him in return. The kindness with which he treats Chaucer—and the bond that the two of them have formed—have secured Terence a place in my heart more sure and meaningful than any vow I could utter. I used to say that the way to my heart was through my funny bone. And it was, back in the day. But that was before Chaucer padded into my life. Now I know without a doubt that the way to my heart is through my dog's heart.
Recently, Epic Walks had to come to an end. Chaucer just isn't up to the hills anymore. It broke my heart to have to give up our beloved path, through the quiet and stillness of the banking towers. But we readjusted and struck a new course through the middle of town instead. Then, a few days ago, Terence had a thought: what if we bypass the hills and take elevators up through the lower levels of the US Bank Building instead? I wasn't sure if we could get high enough, but Terence assured me we could. So we tried it. And yep, we can. We can get back to the same area we used to—wide open sidewalks and grassy areas for roaming; no steep hills to challenge Chaucer's aging hips.
Terence saved Epic Walks. And in doing so, he gave something back to me the value of which I don't know how to make him understand. Except by maybe writing this post.
Bonnaroo 2015
July 14, 2015
It's always an intimidatingly huge task, to try and recap Bonnaroo. Just reviewing the performances doesn't really get you there. And anyway, music blogs and mags do a much better job of that than me.
With festivals, it comes down to moments. Blissful moments. Stressful moments. Carefree moments. Surprised moments. Annoyed moments. Amused moments. Playful moments. Pissed-off moments. Those are what stay with me. So those are what I'm sharing today, albeit a solid month after they've cooled off. In no particular order, because order is taking the summer off.
1. An industrial truck is rolling through the middle of the grounds. It inches past picnic tables where the sweaty and sun-drenched scarf down pizza and donuts. The cab's windows are lowered; two tanned young men sit inside, looking surprisingly cheerful considering the circumstances. These men are doing god's work: hauling pumped-out waste from the Porta Potties. Their heroics are not lost on the crowd, many of whom rush up to high-five them in appreciation. Bonnaroooooo! they call to one another, slapping palms and exchanging smiles, respect, germs. I have a hard time picturing such a scene happening at Coachella.
2. The things you hear, as you move through the throng. Snippets of conversations, shouts of greeting, laughter. You wonder about the stories behind some of them. I really don't think they have chicken soup, says a male voice doubtfully, and I'm intrigued enough to make a note of it in my phone. Is his girlfriend sick? Cold? It's ninety degrees out, middle of the day. Hot soup hardly seems a refreshing choice for overheated revelers. I hope she finds a pot pie or fried chicken, something more likely to be around but just as comforting.
3. They like to say Bonnaroo fills up your spirit for the year ahead. I think of this as we're laying on our sheet, at the edge of a relatively empty tent, listening to the opening song of Who Is William Onyeabor. It's especially dry and dirty over here. As people drift in to check out the music, they kick up dust and inadvertently add to the thin layer of Tennessee that hovers then settles lightly on our skin. I love it, though. It's part and parcel of the experience. We're especially close right now, maybe that's why. Joking and cuddling, flat on our backs, removed but involved, enjoying what's on offer but also making something for ourselves. These are the best Bonnaroo moments. Taking it in but creating at the same time. I love him so much at this instant, fist propped behind his head, tapping a foot while I slap his leg to the beat. All our small cuts and hurts forgotten, lovingly bandaged up with music and sunshine.
4. We're enjoying one of the few gaps in our schedule. Wandering, catching bits of shows here and there, gravitating to whatever draws us in. Something funky's going down at This Tent. We slide into the back corner, where the reds and purples of stage lights hit the black wall of night, washing us in a pink haze. We dance, and I can't tell if we're being ironic with our ridiculous moves or not. A man approaches us and wordlessly, wondrously hands us a pineapple. He gestures emphatically for us to hold it together, which we do, glancing at one another and at him in amazement. So, this is happening. He still doesn't speak and neither do we, other than to say thank you and laugh. All three of dance for a few moments before I sense that I'm expected to return the pineapple. I do so, and he dances out of sight with it. I think we're festival-married now, says Terence. I think that was some kind of ceremony. I suspect Pastor Pineapple will be in a lot of Bonnaroo stories.
5. Another overheard tidbit. This time I see the speakers: a girl skipping ten steps behind two of her friends—a girl and guy—who lean on one another with linked arms as they walk. Crossing an expanse of grass in front of us, so young and fresh they make my heart ache. There's a softness about them I can't explain, as if the light breaking just now was cleared by the clouds especially for them. Where are you gooooing, Katie, where are you going? sings the second girl to her friend ahead. Joy and friendship twinkle in her voice. We're going to make halos! comes the reply, over a freckled shoulder, equally singsong and inviting. Somehow they've managed to write Bonnaroo in fourteen words.
6. Turquoise braids so close I can see where the blond fades in. A gauzy floral kimono, also turquoise, wisping across my ankles. Funky sunglasses, red lipstick, a smile wider than the sky. Girlfriends on either side of her, but she's obviously the beloved ringleader. They sit practically on our feet, so smashed up against them are we. Row after row of us, cross-legged, facing the Jumbotron where Bleacher's lead singer is torturing a tent full of millennial women. He's one part one emo, one part bro. "Ebro," Terence calls him. Braids and Co., shifting positions, notice how much they're on top of us. They apologize, try to make room. We assure them it's no problem, they're welcome to what few inches of space we're all sharing. Braids is effusive, bubbling with thanks and her goofy stoner's grin. She loves us, she says. I love her hair, I say. If we want any of her, you know (she holds up a small pipe), we're welcome to partake. Seriously, it's the good shit. Terence gives her an orange, which he obtained from the VIP tent but which we have no use for. Braids is delighted, hugs him in thanks. I get a hug, too. If nothing else, I won't get scurvy! There's a topless hula hooper over Terence's shoulder. I discreetly point her out to him and my expression says See? I told you they do that here. I've been thinking about ditching the itchy bra under my tank top, so I'm building my case. Bleachers, a world away from NYC, are a blast.
7. I'm going to kill him, I fume silently. I'm going to absolutely kill him. The thing I dread most, the thing I warned him against repeatedly, has happened. We've gotten separated. There's no cell reception. Texts don't go through and calls disappear into voicemail purgatory. We have a designated meeting place set but a show has just started, one we've both been looking forward to. Tears for Fears. He wanted to catch some of Ben Folds before it started, but we cut it too close and by the time we left the crowd was impossibly thick. Walking too fast ahead of me, darting around crazily, striding over the blankets of people already sitting down. I refused to follow suit, perhaps unreasonably so, but I'd rather take the long way around than be disruptive and rude. And now we're separated instead of singing along together. I'm going to kill him. And I nearly do, when we meet up afterward. Chewing him a new one by the mushroom fountain, overly loud. He counters with fierce, forced cheerfulness. These are the worst Bonarroo moments. Veering sharply off course before you know what's happened, willing yourself to shrug off anger and annoyance, intensified by heat, fatigue, hunger. But I do. I stop us walking and pull him into a hug, holding tight until I feel the tension truly release from his body. I'll hold him all night if I have to. We're not fighting at Bonnaroo. Anyway, they sounded depressingly old to me, to be honest. The whole show felt hokey. You can't go home again. You can only go forward.
8. Childish Gambino. Not my thing, but Terence is fascinated by the guy. Completely gave up a career acting. It's like if I just decided one day to.... I tune out. I can't help it. I'm distracted by thoughts of the night ahead. It's just past nine and in a little while we're going to take pills which will make us want to dance. And I can't wait to dance. Deadmau5 the night before was not enough. I'm twitching in my seat, ready for some Silent Disco, some Bassnectar and Flume. Though it could also be the fact that my ass itches horribly, when I sit on the ground in my Dance Pants. Something about the combination of cold vinyl, the hay-like grass underneath, and the sticky slick feel of my leggings. It's the worst, and I keep finding reasons to stand up, smooth my clothing out. The VIP tent is a short walk away so I make a couple trips over there to pee in relative luxury while Terence gets his rap fix. In the buzzy light of the trailer restroom, I check myself out. High neck crop top that laces up my back. Colorful, slinky jersey pants hugging my hips. Festival outfit planning always brings out my harshest inner critic. No way, Ellie. You are too fucking old for that. That too. And that? Don't even think about it. And I compromised with myself this time, balancing out the amount of skin I'm showing. But the getup is skintight and unforgiving, and I worked hard to own it. This vanity, gross and superficial, is still part of the fun of festivals for me. I'll outgrow it eventually.
9. I always forget how much I love the sprawling, sweltering afternoon shows on the main stage. The frenetic energy of late-night sets is the excitement I daydream about, leading up to festivals. But once I'm there, the truth is that the daytime headliners out at the What Stage—a massive field lined with food stalls and shops, with room enough for 90,000+ people—are what often give me the most joy. And right now, I'm giddy with it, listening to Spoon. The sizzling heat has pinned thousands of fans to the ground, where they sit or lay in various degrees of dehydration, delight, or both. Every last one of us working on a sunburn, none of us caring. The opening chords of "Do You" launch me into a frenzy. I jump up, dancing a circle around Terence, singing to him as I bounce. It's one of the songs I've most been looking forward to hearing live. Their entire set will end up being one of my favorites of the weekend. Britt Daniel's scratchy howling has been on my radar since the 90s and finally seeing him perform is a kind of coming home. Terence dances with me, the two of us jumping around like maniacs. When we collapse in a heap, defeated by the sun, I lean against him, smoothing the hair from his face as I sing.
10. Waiting to ride the Ferris Wheel. In three years of going to festivals, I've never yet managed to get on one. We're high on mushrooms and the length of the line doesn't faze me a bit. Everything is color and light and contentment, and I'm satisfied to just look around. The sun is setting, and our bodies cast twenty foot shadows across the grass. The placard at the entrance tells about the original Ferris Wheel at the World's Fair. Adjusted for inflation, a ticket to ride cost $90. Ninety dollars! I'll tell everyone I know this, back at home. Silly on psychedelics, we assign flavors to the car colors. I hope we get grape. Or lemon. When we finally board, we're amazed at how long the ride lasts. Florence and The Machine is on, way off in the distance. I'd caught her at Coachella and had encouraged Terence to go watch her himself, but he's chosen to stay with me instead. We watch a sea of people surging to the music, which we can hear clearly even at this remove. Terence takes in the vastness of Bonnaroo, the endless camping area and the size of the grounds. I duck as he takes panoramic pictures, craning around in my seat to get my own sunset shots. It's spectacular.
11. Guster is playing "Ramona." I wasn't even sure I wanted to watch their set, I had so little faith they'd play much of the older stuff I know, considering how massive their catalog is. But they're playing "Ramona" and it is absolutely making my Bonnaroo. I. Fucking. Love. This. Song. Terence films me singing along, where we sit off to the side, in the grass. When it ends I realize I'm crying. Not even sure why. Not even sure what it dragged up, from deep inside me. Not sure I want to look at it and see. But it got something, that's for sure.
12. Deadmau5 has just ended. Tens of thousands of people are shuffling back to the main grounds, to catch the rest of ODESZA. Other mau5heads like me have been stunned into silence. I stumble along, my hand hooked into the back of Terence's shorts, "Avaritia" still ringing in my ears. The set was phenomenal. Operatic. And all I can think is that I wish there was a way to make Joel Zimmerman understand—feel—what his music does to us. I wish there was a machine I could hook him up to, so that as he performed, all the emotion, all the elation his music generates in fans could be routed straight back into him. Electrify him with a heart attack of appreciation. He is like no other, to me. An innovator with the success and talent to back up his occasional attitude. One of my biggest creative idols, and whom I was most excited to see this weekend. From the opening notes of "You There" (which is exactly what I'd hoped he'd start with), I spent his entire set in an ecstasy of movement, only stopping to drink water. Heaven.
13. Billy Joel. Creeping around in the dark field as his set is starting, trying to agree on the optimum spot. We end up on the VIP hill, where to my right I see a crowd of ninety thousand, illuminated by the towering lights of the What Stage. A mass of waving glow sticks, launched in huge bundles towards the sky at key points during songs. LED hula hoops, jump ropes, and all manner of blinking totems. And the lanterns. Those delicate paper balloons carefully lit and set aloft by the crowd, to the triumphant cheers of everyone nearby. They drift by overhead, tiny glowing festival clouds that complete the magic scene that is Bonnaroo's last night. And the music. Terence belting it out, totally absorbed, totally transplanted (probably someplace close to where I've gone; we're only two years apart, after all). I get weepy during "Piano Man" and giddy during "Only The Good Die Young" and everything in between is just all kinds of wonderful.
14. Sometime this spring, "Sedona" by Houndmouth got under my skin in a really big way. The story in that song...I don't know, I just love it. And when they played it, well. Terence standing behind for me to alternately jump on and lean into, breaking my face on the biggest smile ever. Realizing it was only Thursday night and we had another three days' worth ahead of us.
15. Do you know STS9? I did not. I don't know how I'd missed them, studying up. Right up my instrumental alley. We caught them on accident, grabbing a bite next to where they played. Sometimes, being completely removed from a stage offers the best vantage point. This was one of those times. We could see the entire light show, lasers and strobes blasted in every which way to the pulsing beat. From a distance, the whole thing look contained, like a sci-fi movie set standing alone on an otherwise dark island.
16. A small thing, but heartwarming to see: the various Robin Williams totems.
17. I say this with love in my heart for AWOLNATION: AWOLNATION is a big dork. I'd dragged Terence up close to the stage in the blazing heat, half an hour early. We and everyone around us utterly defeated by the sun, hardly anyone talking. Shading ourselves with our hands, sending emissaries out for cold drinks. But then the music starts and we all gamely jump up. Faithful, sun-fried fans, going on pure anticipation. He's animated, undeniably spirited and pumped to be at Bonnaroo. But also...awkward somehow? When he tries to rally the crowd between songs he sounds more like a morning radio DJ than a rockstar. It's a surprise, a bit of a let down at first, but then fun in its own way. We giggle at how goofy he comes across, and give in to what now feel like cheesy anthems.
18. Cooling off in the VIP tent, girding ourselves for another several-hour stint in the sun. Terence uses the bathroom, and when he returns he finds me in conversation with a middle-aged man holding a silver mylar balloon. He's round and pink, pleasantly toasted by sunshine and alcohol. He's telling me about the vibrations in his balloon. How it's picking up levels of sound beyond what the speakers are producing. People are freaking out, he says, when they hear it. Goes on a bit about frequencies and secret, mystical music. Clearly having some kind of spiritual experience, with the balloon, sharing it with everyone he can. Terence gives it a try, and the surprised look on his face delights the man. See? Totally different waveforms, right? The balloon is passed to me. Yep. Totally different waveforms. Pretty damn cool.
right up the road
July 16, 2015
Nestled in the northeastern corner of Georgia, in the Blue Ridge Mountains of the Central Appalachians, sits the quiet, unassuming town of Clayton. It comprises a little over three square miles, an area some 2,400 people call home. If you were a resident of Clayton and you wished to spend the day in another state, you'd have three to choose from: North Carolina, South Carolina, and Tennessee. All are within relatively short driving distance, accessible by some of the most scenic stretches of highway in the southeastern U.S.
But if you lived in Clayton, Georgia - and in particular, on the shores of Clayton's manmade reservoir known as Lake Burton - I'm not sure why you'd want to leave at all.
On the Monday after Bonnaroo ended, Terence and I and a bus full of exhausted revelers rode from Manchester back to Nashville, where we boarded planes to wherever it was we'd come from. Well, not all of us. Not me. I stayed right where I was, in a hotel adjacent to the airport that I booked online, sight unseen. I ordered a pizza, soaked my festival-sore body in the tub, and fell asleep by 9pm. All according to plan, in other words.
In the morning I hopped a shuttle to the rental car terminal, where I loaded up a Dodge Journey with all the clothes Terence hadn't schlepped back home for me, plus my laptop, iPad, and Gorillapod. I started my sat-nav, crossed my fingers for an uneventful five hour drive, and set forth on what turned out to be one of the best weeks of my life.
I only had to stop for directions twice.
- - -
The route from Nashville to Lake Burton that Google chose for me that day starts out unremarkably. A few hours of flat-to-mildy-hilly monotony, southeast through Tennessee farmland, before beginning to flirt with the Georgia state line a few towns west of Chattanooga. That's where the landscape gets interesting. And by interesting I mean distractingly gorgeous. The green of the Central Appalachian mountains isn't like the green of other forests. It's an insistent green, brighter and younger-seeming than the woods out west. A green that threatens to swallow you up, if you dare step into it. And you'll have many chances to take that dare. SEE Ruby Falls beckons the side of a decaying barn, an invitation painted in huge letters, white on cheery, cherry red. Explore Breathtaking Ruby Falls urges the next, five miles down the freeway. SEE Ruby Falls, LOOKOUT MTN. The signs so frequent, so insistent you feel guilty disobeying them.
But your hosts are expecting you, and it's getting late. So you skip Ruby Falls, which is probably chock full of tourists, anyway. You have a feeling better, more seldom-seen sights await you. So you press on, through mountain country, then lake country, dipping in and out of states you've never set foot in, losing cell phone service, hoping your GPS hasn't betrayed you, wondering, if you had to, if you could even read those two paper Rand McNallys you bought in a mild panic at the general store, where the lady with the crinkly eyes assured you Yep, Georgia's right up the road! It's been a long time since that semester of social studies.
Though wow does your jaw drop when you enter Cherokee National Forest, snaking along next to the Ocoee River where sturdy lodges with canoes and kayaks out front promise adventure. Whitewater Rafting! Walk-ins welcome. Or the one that really tugs at you: Canopy Zip Line Tours. Maybe on the way back. Yes, you tell yourself. On the way back. I could even stay a night down here, rent a little cabin by the water. Why not? Haven't bought my return ticket yet. Play it by ear. For now, though, you have to keep going, tempted as you are to stop at the vacant pullouts alongside the road. Just listen to the rushing water. Just get a good look at this unbelievable place. But no. Bill and Hannah are waiting, the sun is sinking, and your night vision is terrible. You can stop all you want, on the way back to Nashville. And you will.
- - -
Bill comes downstairs barefoot, to show me where to park. A cocoa-colored labradoodle circles his legs excitedly. Ziggy! I carefully inch the SUV around the tightly curving path, trying to collect my suddenly scrambled thoughts as I look up and realize (Oh my god, it's right on the) that the home I'd been invited to stay at (water, it's actually RIGHT ON THE WATER) isn't in the suburbs, tucked away in some smallish town like I imagined, a quick drive or at best a decent walk to the water. It's an honest-to-goodness lake house. It's on the lake. This house is on the fucking lake.
I explode out of the car to greet the 87 year-old friend I've seen, before today, only twice in my life.
Breakfast at Lake Burton
July 21, 2015
Breakfast at Lake Burton is a casual affair. Coffee and conversation, mainly. Toast sometimes, sliced thin, from bread Bill bakes himself. Fished by Hannah, with a chuckle and a butter knife, out of the temperamental Cuisinart I'd replace if I thought they wouldn't scold the purchase. Bill bakes a loaf or two every other day, often giving the prettier one away to neighbors. Sourdough and rye, though he's still perfecting his sourdough recipe. Still trying to master those elusive San Francisco air bubbles.
Bill occasionally indulges in a slice of country ham, thick and salty, doctor's prohibitions be damned. Perhaps as a diversionary tactic, he teases me about how much sugar I put in my coffee, a cup of which Kim, he and Hannah's son, sets aside for me every morning. (Halfway through the week I notice that though the cabinet is also full of ordinary mugs, Kim always selects one of the elegant, delicate teacups for me.)
Hannah, eighty-seven like her husband, comes upstairs each morning having dressed with more care than I take most days, and freshly made up. She brings sliced strawberries to the table, or grapes, or cherries. Until I catch on to her timing and do it myself, she then sneaks into the room where I sleep to make my bed. Sometimes she joins Bill and I on the screened-in porch, an extension they built themselves on their home of almost twenty-five years. She tells stories about growing up in Oklahoma and Texas, with three sisters and a brother. About courtship and love in the fifties. About her job at the phone company - land line phones, that is - before she quit to raise four boys. On hotter mornings she and Kim eat inside, and if the sliding glass door is open I can hear them discussing the news, or family, or any of the dozens of subjects on which Kim possesses an encyclopedic knowledge. Current events, culture, local history, politics; you name it, he can teach you something about it.
Bill and I spend this time getting to know one another more. We start on familiar ground: Mason. My oldest friend, his nephew by marriage. We gossip with affection about his welfare, his health, his social and romantic life. Mason is the reason I'm here, having introduced me to his uncle a few years back over my first "orphan" Thanksgiving. Bill and I clicked like clockwork, and have stayed in touch ever since. This visit to his home in Georgia is the result of over two years of him urging me to come and me gently demurring. I want to, believe me! I just can't justify it right now... But then: Bonnarroo, right around the corner in Tennessee. I couldn't not come, when I was already only a state away.
We move from Mason on to other topics. Religion - our dislike of it, and the atheist writers and philosophers we admire for tackling it. Los Angeles - our respective experiences of it, mine as a thirty-something and his as teenager. Relationships - their challenges, the trivial concerns of modern dating vs. the lessons of a six decades-long marriage. He laughs at my funny anecdotes of life with Terence and Chaucer, and I pay close attention to how he and Hannah interact, trying to grok the secret to their happiness (spoiler alert: no secret, just a deep mutual respect warming their every exchange).
I treasure these talks. They are the moments Bill most reminds me of my dad, wearing the keen, bright-eyed look of an engaged listener. He asks about my upbringing, probing gently about my childhood, my parents, my brother. His curiosity is matched only by his consideration and tact; he wants to know what's made me me, but he doesn't wish to press any bruises.
For his part, he shares openly and willingly, even the painful bits. The loss of three sons. Three. I knew this about him, it was one of the first things Mason had told me, but I didn't know the details. And while those details aren't mine for sharing here, I will say that considering what he, Hannah, and Kim have gone through...well, a week in their company was enough to shame me out of self pity for the rest of my life. What are you gonna do, Bill says simply, when I shake my head, stumbling through the only condolences I can think to offer.
What you do, if you're a T----. anyway, is move on, head high and heart strong. You mourn the loss but celebrate the life. Over the week I spend in their house, he and Hannah share enough family lore with me, show me enough photographs of their sons - and their sons' wives and children, all of whom they are still close with - that by the end of my visit I could sketch the T----. family tree, if asked. And I'll leave knowing not only who those people are, but why they loved one another.
But I never feel like an outsider.
Quite the opposite, in fact. I am treated with such warmth and inclusion that, frankly, it makes my own family vacations seem miserable by comparison. The word that keeps coming to mind, despite my efforts to push it back down, is "do-over". After a while I give in and accept it. This is like a do-over, of all those trips to stay with uncles and aunts and a grandmother who never really liked me, relatives who never made me feel like I belonged. This is what family is supposed to feel like.
Kim, Mason's oldest cousin, is kinder to me than any of my own cousins ever was. The second morning of my stay, he gifts me a dream catcher. An elegant net of beads and feathers to hang in my temporary quarters, or just bring back home. I don't know where he got it, it may have been something he picked up years before and just held onto - but for whatever reason, he bestows it on me. He also gives me a magazine on photography (which from my endless snapping he's gathered I enjoy), in case the time change causes me insomnia. Another day he presents me with a local guidebook and thoughtful suggestions for day trips. Worried I'm not eating enough, he pushes bananas and apples at me.
I'm eating plenty, though. Am I ever. Shrimp and grits. Roast duck. Lamb lollipops and squab, which Bill dresses with herbs from his own garden. Yellow zucchini. Things I've rarely - or never - touched before. I'm drinking plenty, too. The first bottle gets uncorked around four, about the time I start pestering the cooks with offers to help (which are always rejected). Rose or white, followed by Bordeaux at dinner and Chambord on the rocks for dessert...or just Kahlua over ice cream. One night Bill and I and neighbor Woody even conduct a port tasting on the porch.
Neighbor Woody. I've been dying to tell you about neighbor Woody.
The first thing you notice is his cheerfulness, the sort of relaxed happiness that comes from years of good decision making - or at least being at peace with those years and those decisions. He wears thick bifocals, and has a way of tilting his head and smiling as he listens that suggests whatever you're saying is the best news he's heard all week. He's a staunchly conservative Republican. He's also one of the most likable people I've ever met.
Woody is Bill's best buddy, his partner in crime and his aide-de-camp. I found myself fascinated and inspired by their friendship, which persists despite fundamentally different world views and a nearly thirty year generation gap. I loved listening to them tell its story.
Woody actually got to Lake Burton first. He and his wife, both Georgia natives, visited Clayton on vacation. Saw the lake, fell in love with it. Pledged to someday have a second home there. Worked their asses off. Accomplished that goal. Bought a modest house at the more affordable end of the lake. Small, bare bones. No running water. That is, until Bill moved in next door, into a similarly modest house. Bill had a well. Bill invited Woody to tap that well. So began their 20+ year companionship. Together they watched Lake Burton grow. They saw the shore's original lake houses torn down, the land sold for a profit many times over that of its original worth. They witnessed the lake's revival - a huge infusion of wealth in the form of rebuilt vacation homes, left vacant most of the year. Indeed, there is an unavoidable sense of residents pitted against renters, in Lake Burton. Summer visitors and other part-timers come in droves. Drunk boating. Rich kids cramming the lake with speedboats, wave runners, water skis. They're loud and spoiled, and one gets the sense the year-rounds tolerate them with amusement if not exactly appreciation.
Would you believe this is just an introduction? I haven't even taken you down to the water yet.
Lake Tour
July 27, 2015
There's a town buried deep beneath the surface of Lake Burton. It wasn't a very big one, boasting a population of only about 200 people. But it was an important one, established in the early 19th century during the Gold Rush. By the time the Georgia Railway and Electric Company bought it in 1917, Burton had become a base for the local mining and logging industries, and the second largest town in the county. Most of its buildings were moved before the dam was closed and the reservoir flooded, but some were left to be destroyed by the rising waters.
It's eerie to think about, that underwater ghost town.
Almost every night of my stay, when the lake's western edge blushed with dusky pink twilight, I crept down to watch the water turn black. It takes a while. The surface shimmers through several shades of deepening blue, growing ever more still as boaters return to their docks. The shouts and splashes of lingering swimmers echo around the shore, which holds onto the last violet glimmers of light as if reluctant to let go. As if the silent, secret, watery town down below wants a sunset, too.
When darkness finally gets ahold of the lake, it's impenetrable. The mountains seem to close in, sealing everything in a deep tranquility that, with its southern strangeness, struck me as deliciously dangerous. God knows what kinds of spiders out there. What poisonous plants along the road behind me. And just beyond, in the hills, what wildness lurks.
I'd better go back inside.
Well, maybe five more minutes...
I've never been on a pontoon boat before. Which makes the dog I'm sitting next to the veteran, and me the n00b. I'm totally okay with this. I'm zooming around a 2,775 acre lake, in June, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in my hand, hanging out with my favorite octogenarian. The man driving the boat is named Woody. The dog is named Zoe. I'm not the only one enjoying a glass of wine. Yep, I'm totally okay with being a n00b today.
Zoe and I are at the front of the boat, which is lined on all sides with deep, padded seats. I'm tucked into the corner of one such seat, and Zoe, a standard poodle mix whose poodle-ness dominates her DNA, is at my feet. I'm nervous for her - about her - but I don't need to be. She's clearly done this a million times before. Her ears, fluffy white puffs the fur of which looks expertly crimped, blow back prettily as she gazes at the lake from behind a small metal gate. She's probably in heaven. I know I am.
Bill and Woody are a few feet away, conferring about the community. I catch snippets of their talk. Who moved in where, and when. Who moved out, and why. The real estate gossip of locals. Every so often one of them calls out some fact about the lake's history, or points out an especially striking home. They needn't bother with that, though. I've barely blinked since we pulled out of Woody's boathouse.
The houses are jaw-dropping, each more spectacular than the last. The kind of houses that are beyond envy, beyond aspiration. Another world entirely. The one-percenters. Most are empty save for the few days a year their owners can unchain themselves from whatever high-powered careers financed them. Some tower boldly right over the water, imposing mansions of beam and stone. Some hide demurely behind trees, their massive plate glass windows winking in the sun that breaks through. Woody nods towards one. Twelve fireplaces, he says with a grin. I don't believe him, and quickly scan the castle-like roof. Sure enough, there are twelve chimneys. Twelve goddamn fireplaces. Who are these people? I pet Zoe and marvel.
Now Bill's humble jokes about living at the "ghetto end" of the lake make sense. All 62 miles of Lake Burton's shoreline are charming, but some stretches are truly majestic. My host and his friend watch me take it all in. The city girl. Long way from LA. They don't realize that my Michigan roots are tingling with delight right now. I'm only recently a city girl. And I'm not really a desert girl, or a suburb girl, though I've spent most of my life in those. And no way no how am I beach girl. I'm a lake girl. Lakes have always drawn me in like no other landscape does. Peaceful. Contained. Safe. I grew up on a lake and if I'm lucky I'll grow old on one, like these friends of mine. Who knows though, and who cares right now. I'm on a boat with a dog, and we've got wine.
The lake branches into multiple narrow fingers that we tool through slowly. It's endless in the best way, and I can't get enough of the green. Every last twig and leaf I put in the pocket of my memory, not knowing when I'll see such lushness again. The three of us point out our favorite houses. I prefer the more modest cabins set back a ways in the woods. I like the idea of running out their back doors, down to the water, jumping in without a moment's hesitation. Woody and I both admire a trim lodge with a pretty green roof; it belongs to a woman they know, and has for years. Bill makes fun of one of the gaudier-looking manors, generally agreed by locals to be the lake's biggest eyesore. A colossus of a thing, all weird angles and too much height, jutting out over a bend in the shoreline. They tell me about the mysterious millionaire (billionaire?) who bought the small island in the middle of the lake. Built a property up from scratch, and a low stone wall around it to fence himself in. Completely isolated. An empire of solitude and beauty inhabited a mere two weeks a year.
Back in the main body of the lake, we speed up. Woody drives us to where, over the fourth of July, everyone gathers to watch fireworks. Hundreds of boats. So much water traffic it takes hours to disperse afterword. Later Hannah will describe how, when the fireworks end, all the boats starting up at once is a chaos of rumbling motors and backsplashing. I decided I only needed to see that once, she'll laugh.
Noisy holidays and eccentric outsiders notwithstanding, these people love their home and their lake. They love sharing it, and showing off its many wonders. I'm suitably impressed and incredibly grateful to be here - but my gratitude has less to do with the view than with the company I'm keeping.
Highlands
July 30, 2015
The drive from Lake Burton to Highlands, North Carolina isn't long, just steep and winding. I suffer from wicked carsickness, so Bill agreed to white-knuckle it as my passenger and guide while I did my best to keep us from careening through a guard rail into the Appalachian mountainside. There's a country club coming up on the right here, very nice property, exclusive membership, all that jazz. Too rich for my blood. Really pretty though.
I'm sure it was pretty, but I barely glanced at it.
You know how carefully you drive when a -- well, when a senior member of society is in the car? Now imagine you're driving that person for the first time. On a narrow country road. And he's mentioned repeatedly how good a driver his granddaughter is, making you feel absurdly competitive, because being around him is triggering a kind of weird, quasi-filial reaction. Nothing bad. Rather nice, in fact; just not what you expected to find when you unpacked your cutoffs and sunscreen.
Okay well I guess that's a more complicated scenario to identify with, but you get the idea. I was concentrating.
Highlands is an alpine town of less than 1,000 residents high up in the Nantahala National Forest, just north of the Georgia state line. It was founded by a couple of surveyors who drew map lines from Chicago to Savannah and from New York to New Orleans, believing that the point of intersection would make an excellent trading and commerce hub. That point of intersection became Highlands, which at an elevation of 4,100 feet makes it one of the highest towns east of the Mississippi.
In other words, it's a great spot to cool off in the summer.
It's also a great spot to drink, because it's home to the Old Edwards Inn, a self-described "European-style resort" that seems to have earned a ranking on pretty much every 'U.S. best of' hotel list. And while I can't speak to that, as the only amenities I experienced were the terrace bar and its adjoining restroom, I will say they make a damn fine salty dog. Old Edwards Inn is on the National Register of Historic Places, which sets Bill up beautifully for some sort of age-referencing wisecrack. He'd make one, too, if he wasn't busy socializing with his blogger friend from LA and the couple seated to her right. Let's join them.
- - -
Tina is tiny. I won't fully appreciate how tiny Tina is until a few days later, when she's dangling helplessly in front of me on a zip line. But even now, everything from her doll hands to her Cupid's bow to her size five shoes seems diminutive. Everything except her personality.
Tina loves blue. And sparkle. Everything Tina wears is blue, or sparkly, or both. Drapey tunic, sleek leggings, heeled espradrilles. Rhinestones on her accessories, real ones on her fingers. Eyeshadow and nail polish that gleam like the dust of crushed sapphires. A bohemian rhapsody in blue. I suspect she's an Aquarius and purposefully dresses the part. I like her a lot. I've known her ten minutes.
Tina is an artist. She's swiping through her phone's photo album, showing me what she makes. She didn't volunteer this information; I had to ask to see pictures. Bags, jewelry, hairpieces. Brass hardware, peacock feathers, jewel tones, rich fabrics. Ornate and old-fashioned things. Things for women who like things older than themselves. And though I'm only seeing photos, it all appears well-made. Tina is talented.
Tina is originally from West Virginia. She reveals this with a wry, lopsided smile, as if to acknowledge there's something shameful about her roots. Actually, I'm totally intrigued. She thinks I'm thinking, Psshh, what a hillbilly. In truth I'm thinking, Wow, what a badass. I bet she's seen some shit.
Tina loves Bill, naturally. Everyone loves Bill. He's got a joke or a kind word for everyone, quick to self-deprecate and never taking himself too seriously. Smart as a whip, ready to defend his opinions but diplomatic enough to know when just politely listening is the better call. He's suggested this day trip to Highlands thinking I'd get a kick out of it, enjoy the mountain air. He's right on those counts but his notion that I want to go explore the three block drag of touristy shops (Go on! I'm fine here, I've got this nice young gentleman to refill my drink when I'm done.) is wrong. I'm content to just sit here, just enjoy his company. And Tina's, to whom I turn again.
Are you on Etsy?
No.
What?? Why not?
I don't knowww. Her accent thick on this. It's just a hobby, really. She smiles and shrugs, shrinking back in modesty. I don't know how much I could really sell. Though I did have a show recently! That was fun. Taps at the phone again, shows me a display table draped in black velvet, carefully arranged with her treasures.
You should open an Etsy shop. These are so pretty, really.
Thank you, that is so sweet of you. What about you? She flips the conversation, self-conscious from talking about herself at length. When I explain how I know Bill, my blog comes up. She's keenly interested. What do I write about? Do I make money from it? Who reads it? Why don't more people read it? Why don't I try to make a living from it? Same reason you don't have an Etsy shop. We agree: self-promotion isn't our forte.
Tina tells us a story about the freak accident she had in the spring. Slipped in the shower, alone in a hotel room, traveling by herself. Knocked the entire front row of her teeth clean out. Jaw wired shut for nearly a month. Dentists and surgeons didn't think they'd be able to reconstruct. But looking at her now, watching her elegantly spear salad greens and sip rose, you'd have no idea. I'm gobsmacked, not by her tale but by the tranquil tone with which she tells it. The woman must have nerves of steel. What's there to be afraid of, after something like that?
Her husband sits beside her, watching the game on a television mounted behind the bar. Swarthy and huge, dark ponytail and mustache. He listens with half an ear to our conversation, only occasionally turning his body to fully engage. When he does, a comment he makes leads Bill to correctly guess he rides a Harley. This earns Bill a proud nod and the rest of his attention. They discuss Lake Burton, boats, fishing. Southern stuff.
Husband, whose name I don't catch, rolls his eyes at something Tina says. Not nasty, just ribbing her. They've been together a long time. I get the sense they have wildly opposing interests, that the things they connect over have little to do with fashion or motorcycles. But there's a contentedness between them, a nice energy to be around. Like they've figured it out. Like they know they've got what the other one needs.
The four of us talk dogs; between us we have four of them. Phones come back out, get passed around. Everyone exclaims over everyone else's. The children of the childfree, the babies of the empty-nesters. No kids for Tina, either, and we click on that, too. We'll come back to that topic when we go zip lining, in fact. But right now she's talking about shopping. I have got to go check out such-and-such, on Main Street. Cutest clothes ever, candles and pillows and things too. Don't worry; she and her husband will entertain Bill while I'm gone. I smile; she's got that backwards.
Bill nods emphatically. Yes! Go! Don't you worry about me. Go explore! Have fun! Promising to return in 30 minutes (the town is tiny), I climb wobbily down from my bar stool. Oof. Good salty dog.
- - -
There is nothing of interest to me, in the twee shops of Highlands. I hate tchotchkes. I hate burdening other people with them, as gifts. And I don't need any clothes, though I dutifully stop in the boutique Tina recommended. A delicious-smelling candle tempts me but its heft makes me put it back down. Goddamn baggage restrictions.
I briefly considering hurrying down to the wine shop we passed on the way into town, trying to find a bottle of Sauternes for Bill and Woody. But it's getting close to the time I promised I'd be back, and chances are I'd make a poor selection anyway. Though they'd never tell me if I had.
- - -
Back at Old Edwards Inn, everyone has a fresh drink. Water for me, though; I'm driving. Knowing Bill will give me hell, I order a slice of chocolate cake. Partly to mess with him, but mostly because I've noticed how long hot food orders take here. When it comes it's a terrifying mound of whipped cream and sprinkles that I can barely put a dent in. Tina helps me though, while Bill shakes his head, pretending to be scandalized.
Tina asks what my plans are, for the rest of my stay.
Well, actually I'm thinking of going zip lining. We passed a place on the way up, they do canopy tours. Through the tree tops or whatever. I don't know how much it is or if they're booked up though...
Zip lining? Oh my gosh that sounds so fun, I want to go zip lining!
And just like that, I have a date for zip lining. I can't wait to see what she wears.
- - -
We stop at Dry Falls on the way back, so named for the walkway underneath where visitors can pass through untouched by the water. Bill, understandably shy of the stairs, waits on the walkway above while I pop down to see. Just head down right here, make a left around the corner, you can't miss it. Take your time, no rush. Seen it a hundred times myself.
Metal grid stairway, three steep flights. Narrow paved path into the ravine. You hear it before you see it. Feel it, too. That muggy, misty haze. Then the vista opens on a surprisingly impressive cascade of white foam. It's the first waterfall I've seen since the trip to Argentina with my dad.
The falls are pretty scarce of tourists, so while I hate making Bill wait, I linger, enjoying the spray and the solitude. Video for Terence, snapshots from every angle. This green though. I want to get it into my bloodstream.
Back upstairs Bill is admiring improvements that have been made: a new walkway running alongside the eastern end of the parking area, allowing for a nice view even this high above. We lean on the railing and look out. I tell him about Iguazu Falls, about the massive network of walkways running through the park, inches above the water. I try to impress him with the one fact I remember: Apparently when Eleanor Roosevelt saw them she said, 'Poor Niagra!'. He chuckles appreciatively.
I make a point of driving more slowly on the way home, so I can get a good look at the country club this time. Bill chats about the area, its history and the people who settled it. Hardscrabble, he calls them. Nothing grows easily up here. He points to the ropey green vines blanketing the cliffs we drive past. That's called kudzu. It's actually a weed. They brought it in to help shore up the bluffs but it ended up choking all the trees, killing them. I'm struck speechless at the perfection of this metaphor. Something that both supports and destroys that which it supports.
It's the second day of my visit.
Out of words
August 19, 2015
When my brother and I were kids, my dad would occasionally drag us down to the gulf coast of Florida to spend a few days of our summer vacation with relatives. These visits were awful. We hated Florida, with its flat, interminably boring stretches of highway, its unbearable humidity, its beaches crammed with condos full of the walking dead. Our grandmother was a miserable woman, spiteful and manipulative, so vicious to our mother that eventually she just stopped coming along. With one or two exceptions, our uncles and cousins were an equally nasty lot.
My mom had no living relations other than a couple of nephews in Brooklyn, so that was pretty much it for us. Those sojourns down south were our family reunions. Dreaded and dreadful. My parents divorced when I was ten, and by the time I was twelve, my brother had started down a road of crime that landed him in juvie - and then jail - almost constantly. The last time I saw my parents and brother in the same room was 1985.
The point of all this? Family is not my favorite f word. Family is not a thing I have known, for the better part of twenty years. Family is a feeling I had forgotten.
Then I went to Lake Burton.
I'm prone to sentimentality. I know this. I'm better about it than I used to be. I stop myself from infusing meaning unnecessarily into situations and relationships, from saddling them with undue pressure to fill some need in myself. I'm not a magical thinker. I hate magical thinking. But it was really, really hard not to feel like the time I spent in Georgia was the universe giving me something I missed out on, as a kid. It was really hard not to feel like a kid there. I'd send pictures to Mason, texting him excitedly about boating and swimming and zip lining, about my new friends and how welcome I felt in his uncle's home. I feel like my daughter's at summer camp, he'd joke. I'm so happy you're having a good time. I was afraid you'd be bored.
Are you kidding? I'm having the time of my life.
Mealtimes were when I felt it the most. A table set with flowers from the garden and wine from the cellar. Playfulness and good humor. The way I imagined it was supposed to be. Towards the end of my stay I made a game of steering the conversation to the subject of Mason's dad. I'd prompt Bill or Hannah as subtly as I could, then surreptitiously hit record on my phone so later I could compile and send Mason these remembrances of his father.
Hannah and Bill would talk about their sons, too, bringing them to life with boyhood anecdotes about hunting or fishing - and later, their adult misadventures. The things that made them who they were, beloved and difficult. The things that make them missed today.
What I'm having trouble expressing, what I've written into and then revised out of the above paragraphs half a dozen times is how, for the week I was at Lake Burton, I was made to feel like a member of this family. I'm not sure it's something I can easily explain, because it came through it little moments. Small kindnesses, gestures, exchanges. But I wrote some of them down, so I wouldn't forget.
My hosts got used to me slinking out of the house and down to the water at all hours, trying to see the lake from every cast of light. My afternoon walks began with much greater ambition than they ended with, though. Deflated by the heat I'd be home within the hour, sticky and thirsty. Mornings and early evenings proved much better for exploration. At the time I was afraid of being perceived rude, running out of the house all the time, but Bill later said it was nice that I kept myself busy, not needing to be entertained every minute. Indeed, the lake was entertainment enough. I'd plant myself on the roof of the boathouse, or the edge of an abandoned dock, and just sit. Watch and listen and think and breathe.
Despite it being high season, the lake was surprisingly quiet. Birdsong and insect buzzing occasionally interrupted by the shouts of children splashing somewhere down the shore. I took short videos of the lake's surface, or the waves lapping the docks, or the breeze in the trees overhead. I sent these to Terence and friends back home, timing them to arrive at rush hour downtown. Should you be having a stressful day, may I present tonight's episode of Lake TV...
We went into town a few times, for meals and drinks and to see the community. Bill was especially excited to show me The Laurel Bar, where he's had a wild night or two cutting it up with strangers as only an 87 year-old can. It's a cozy little spot. Wood-paneled walls, chandeliers blazing overhead, and deep sofas for lounging near the live music.
Woody came with us, and we three had a grand time telling tall tales over the cocktails. I learned about Woody's background in the shipping business, about the tornado that destroyed his first home on the lake, about his love of cooking and wine (I remember the two of us got unreasonably excited about how much we agree that most vegetables need only salt, pepper, and olive oil to be happy).
After a second round of drinks, Bill took stock of the scene, looking for mischief to get into. But the bar crowd was thin that night, and we decided to start trouble of our own back at the house. Bill produced three bottles of port, and we sat on the porch, sipping and laughing in the dark until late. I couldn't get over the fact that just feet from where we sat was the lake, deep and black, silent and still. The port was magnificent, a chocolate-cherry delight that clung to the inside of dessert glasses so tiny they'd barely fit a man's thumb. We passed the heavy, squat bottles across a red and white check vinyl tablecloth and I realized they'd probably been purchased years if not decades before. Saved for nights just like these.
On my way home from zip-lining I stopped in a farmer's market for supplies to make dinner - a hearty vegetable chowder I'd been making often enough back at home to be comfortable whipping it up in someone else's kitchen. Bill's a bit of a gourmet so I was keen to impress him with at least one meal before I left. It was Hannah's enthusiastic response that made my day, though. Meant the world when later she asked for the recipe.
The peaches at the market, though. Peaches for days and days.
One day there was a storm, and I spent several minutes edging along the railing of the porch, taking video of the rain pelting the lake. Positioning and repositioning my phone, trying to keep it dry but get the best angle. Bill looked up from his newspaper, laughing at my antics. I didn't know how to explain to him how intoxicating it all was to me, that I didn't want to forget a single sound or smell. After the storm subsided I grabbed an umbrella and walked around the corner to where the road recedes into a private drive, a place where the mountain comes down to meet the lake. The trees shed fat drops of water on my head, and the air tasted thick, like wet earth.
I thought of the years I spent living in the desert, hating the dry, scorching heat - a heat that withers and twists, forcing everything that grows into gnarled and dangerous shapes. I tipped my head back and looked at the canopy of green high above me, shimmering with rain and sunlight peeking through saturated branches. I remembered our yard in Michigan. And it was as if in this moment the dry years were pushed a little bit tighter together. Made a little less important, a little less powerful. Like they'd taken less from me than I remembered.
Bill has two dogs: a sweetheart of a labradoodle named Ziggy and a chubby, fiery little Papillon named Joey. They've got run of the house and a few different doggy doors that let them into the yard downstairs - from which they occasionally sneak to wander across the road and climb down to the boathouse. In the mornings Joey would plant himself at the edge of the porch, taking first watch, raising the alarm whenever anyone approached. Like the other Papillons I've known, he's ball crazy and terribly jealous. Hannah spoiled these little guys like nobody's business. They only had to sit and beg near the treat jar for her to indulge them several times a day. You know how there are dogs that act like pets, and dogs that act like kids? Yeah. Anyway, it was so nice to have something furry to cuddle on when I was missing Chaucer.
For every family story I was told, I was shown a dozen pictures to go with it. Framed photos filled every side table, and the shelves of several cabinets. Hannah or Bill would jump up to grab one of these. Here we go. This is Kerry right here, and his girlfriend. Several generations of history, of love and memories. At times I felt like a biographer, listening and seeing the story of this family unfolded for me in bits and pieces. Nothing secret, though it felt just as special as one.
Eventually Bill brought me downstairs, where he pulled out a carton containing a treasure of loose snapshots and memorabilia. He rifled through it, passing the more interesting photos to me, letting me piece together who and what and when. A wedding party: puffy-sleeved taffeta, hairspray, frosted lips. A portrait: graceful woman in a buttoned-up blouse smiling knowingly down the years between us. Mason's teenaged dad, leaning cockily against the hood of a roadster. This I take a picture of, texting it to him. I've always loved that picture, he says back. He looks like such a badass. I don't answer what I'm thinking, which is that they look identical, if not in feature then at least in attitude.
The lake is a series of whispered invitations. Narrow decks stretching out over the water. Stone-paved trails leading off into the woods. My fear of poison ivy and trespassing keep me mostly on the road though once in a while I venture off.
Is this your dock? I call to a man unloading groceries on his driveway.
Sure is, he nods.
Mind if I walk out on it, take a few pictures?
Walk on it, sit on it, dance on it, sleep on it. Whatever you want.
On Friday I drove out to Clemson, South Carolina, to meet some old friends of my dad's for lunch. It was an intensely emotional meeting that deserves its own post, if I can get around to it.
At any rate, I got back to Lake Burton that evening feeling deeply unsettled. I parked the car and tried to shake off the day before I went upstairs where Bill was baking, alone in the quiet house. He took one look at my face and knew I was upset. But I said something lighthearted, shrugging it off, and announced I was going for a quick walk before dinner. When I got back half an hour later Bill was waiting at the kitchen table for me, with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Sit, he said. He looked me squarely in the eye and asked what happened in the gentlest, most fatherly way possible. And then he listened - just listened, until I was done.
Later that night I FaceTimed with Terence, sitting on the boathouse, far enough away from the house that no one could hear me cry. But my tears that night weren't sad; they were grateful. I tried to explain how parts of me were being put back into place, right side up this time, by my time at the lake, and with Bill. That the kindness and solicitousness he showed me as a matter of course - because he is a kind and loving person - were repairing things in me that I'd long since given up on repairing myself.
For dinner one night, Bill, Hannah and I drove to an Italian restaurant a few towns over. The drive was a nightmarish twist of switchbacks and narrow mountain roads, and I felt carsick almost immediately. Poor Bill felt terrible, and kept cursing himself for forgetting I don't fare well in the passenger seat. No no, I'm fine... I insisted, when the road opened up and I could see the horizon again. He assured me we were almost there, so I assured him I didn't need to take over driving. I hung my head out the window and took huge, gulping breaths of the sweet Georgia air.
By the time we got to restaurant Bill was furious at himself for putting me through such a rough ride, and I teased him by pretending to puke the second we got out of the car. He laughed, and I was perfectly fine within minutes. And I was really touched by his consideration. I love and miss my dad like crazy, I'd give almost anything to take one more road trip with him - but oh man, did he not give a damn about my tendency to get carsick. Not in the slightest. Sometimes I even think he had a sadistic streak about it.
The restaurant was a disaster of tinned tomato sauce and overcooked pasta served by an indifferent waitress. I don't even remember what I ordered. It was one of the nicest meals of my year so far.
And with that, I am once again out of words.
of paparazzi and pool parties
August 22, 2015
If I were interesting enough to merit a paparazzi following, those bushes behind Terence would be the best ones through which to stick a telephoto lens and take unflattering pictures of me (tossing back frozen peach margaritas, sniping at Terence for hogging the guac, debating the merits of Bernie Sanders with Kerry and Ross...). This is as far as we fearsome foursome tend to go out of downtown. But the company and conversation are top-notch, the enchiladas adequately smothered, and as I don't need much more on the weekend than some laughs and some melted cheese, I don't much care what zip code I get them from.
At a certain point one cares less about one's appearance in photos than the fact that one has good friends to take them with. Note I didn't say "one doesn't care at all". Only that one cares less. Oof.
After dinner last Saturday we checked out Echo Park Rising, which is a free weekend festival comprised of local (rock) bands staggered around Echo Park's bars, parks, and restaurants. The music we heard wasn't really our jam, but Kerry (who has a zero tolerance policy for crowds) was a sport and let us drag her around to no less than four different venues before we left—and I count that a smashing success.
Kind of a magical moment: right about the time when we'd all given up on finding a show we'd be into, Terence grabbed my hand and pulled me hopefully into one last bar. Kerry and Ross at my heels, we ducked through a narrow front room that branched into two smaller rooms at the back. One of these had a dance floor, and suddenly, without stopping, without even conferring about whether we wanted to stay, we all started dancing. Pools of colored light moving across the floor, kitschy swing music, and four totally unselfconscious drunk friends. That's the stuff for me, baby.
The place was The Short Stop. I'd never been, but I quite like the vibe and will definitely be back.
Good god, but those flippers of mine are terrifying. When I die they should use my hands for one of those claw machine arcade games. You can all come play and I'll ghost-cheat and make sure you get a toy every time. And no, I have no idea what's going on with my forehead bleeding over the top of the image borders. But if it means I'm actually dead already then someone call Netflix because Ghost Blogger would be a cool-ass show.
Is that not the prettiest alley you've seen so far today? I like to think some romantically-minded rats put those lights up, and that all the other rats downtown come here for their date nights.
This guy, with the dimple and sleepy face. Took me for breakfast to Egg Slut at Grand Central Market (yep, it's worth the wait). Hoping if I play my cards right he'll take me back for lunch soon, too.
My friends Atouzo and Yvonne had a pool party! Like, with sangria and teriyaki meatballs and cabanas and everything! And after I finished taking a selfie in Terence's face mirrors I even socialized with other guests! I wore a "statement necklace" for the first time, which was a stupid thing to do on a 100+ degree day. But as I am not well-versed in the ways of statement necklaces, I did not anticipate how badly my neck would sweat under the weight of a spiky metal collar. So I guess the statement my necklace made that day was: I am a dumbass.
Alice
September 9, 2015
She stalks through the automatic doors of the hotel lobby aggressively, her head tipped back so her jaw juts out like a dare. Daring us to stare, daring us to judge. She wears a black peaked policeman's cap, black sunglasses with huge circular lenses that dwarf her porcelain doll face, black knee highs above black Converse, and black dance shorts. Criss-crossed with perfect symmetry across each nipple is a black adhesive 'X'. I know they're pasties, I know she must have bought them, but their width and vinyl smoothness matches that of electrical tape so completely I have a brief vision of her throwing a roll of it, pilfered from her dad's garage, into her suitcase along with the rest of her getup. She'd be 85 pounds, soaking wet. If she's over nineteen I'd eat my hood.
Speaking of my hood, she's speaking of my hood. "Oh my gosh, you're so furry, I love it," she says without any intonation to warn me whether she's being sincere or catty. I'm dressed pretty provocatively myself, so my bitchiness radar is set to high sensitivity. So far this weekend no one's been anything but complimentary of my outfit, but I'm a middle-aged woman in footless fishnets and I'm decidedly on guard. And since the oversized frames hide her eyes, at first I'm not even sure that she's talking to me. "All pink and furry. I just want to rub you." Yep, she's talking to me.
"Go ahead." I smile at her, realizing that nineteen is probably pushing it. She's like a much younger, much frailer Juliette Lewis. But by now our group, which has been waiting in the hotel carport for our ride to the festival, is climbing into the van that's just pulled up. I get in ahead of my boyfriend and for the half-second it seems like she might sit directly beside him my stomach clenches ever so slightly...but then she announces her intention to take the back row instead. "Like the bad kids," she cracks, and everyone laughs louder than necessary. Than they would, I suspect, if the person making the joke wasn't a topless teenaged girl.
Her companion is a slight, sweet-faced kid in a homemade Pinocchio costume, with massive dark eyes that dart about excitedly, taking everything in. This is their first festival. She is clearly the alpha, he the adoring sidekick. I ooh and ahh over his every button and ribbon as he twists around to show them off. Meanwhile the girl stretches her arms out across the seat back, wondering aloud how many Alice in Wonderland costumes they'll see at the festival. Her body language is calculated to declare casual self-confidence but the stiffness of her shoulders, slouched slightly forward, betrays a touch of self-consciousness. I want to tell her it doesn't get any easier with age. But that if she's so comfortable with her body already, she might just get through it better than most. Instead Terence and I advise her and her friend on what sets to catch. Neither of them know any of the performers.
"I like shit like this," she explains, pointing at the van's ceiling to indicate the music playing. "That dirty, ratchet shit." I twist my lips, pretending to think. I hate trap and have no idea what to tell her, but my boyfriend chimes in with suggestions. When he's done, a wave of warmth comes over me. "You don't have any kandi!" I say, as if only now noticing her bare forearms, snow white and thin as reeds.
"I knowww!" she says, with exaggerated mournfulness.
"Okay well I'm giving you this." I separate an elastic bracelet of pony beads from the cluster on my left wrist and carefully pull it over the others towards my left hand. The beads are red, black, white, and light blue—the colors of the classic Disney character's frock. In the center of the kandi are spaced three short words. I doubt she'll get the secondary or tertiary references but considering her earlier comment I can't resist. It's just too perfect. Also, it's the tightest kandi I made and wouldn't fit a wrist much bigger than hers or mine. She lowers her sunglasses for the first time and the youthfulness of her saucer-sized eyes makes my heart thud. The intelligence, too. Ratchet shit, my ass. This girl is playing a part. There's more underneath the rebellious-Hot Topic-model-hoping-to-scandalize-everyone-with-bare-breasts act, I can tell.
I confess that I don't know the exchange ritual very well, and she perks up. "Oooh now I feel like less of a festival noob, teaching a veteran something." I laugh, but what I'm laughing at is the idea of being any kind of veteran to EDM. Since we're sitting in different rows we can't do the "respect" part of the PLUR exchange, but that's okay. She's lit up by the gift I've given her, which she fingers lightly as she reads out the words I strung on it, squinting with 3:00 a.m. post-packing exhaustion, doubting the phrases I'd come up with for my kandi were clever enough for the whippersnappers I might be giving them to. "'GO ASK ALICE'. Oh yay! That's perfect. Haha, I love it. Right on!"
My boyfriend squeezes my thigh and gives me a side smile as the van pulls into the drop-off zone. All dozen of us debouch into a dusty parking lot, putting on our game faces and our sunglasses, adjusting nylon and spandex and fur, tugging our few clothes into place and wearing less—or more—than we'd planned to that day.
Nocturnal Wonderland 2015
September 10, 2015
I took very few photos at Nocturnal, but that wasn't because it isn't an exceptionally photogenic festival. It is. In fact it is much prettier than I thought it would be, since when I heard "San Manuel Amphitheater" I pictured dull, paved fairgrounds. Nope. We're talking full-on The Sound of Music style hills, gorgeous mountain sunsets, and grasssss:
Other than local nightclub shows, this was the first Insomniac event I'd ever been to. I knew to expect big, bold, and beautiful, and truly, they delivered. Spectacular lights and decorative displays, and the most jaw dropping stages - and captivating onstage visuals - imaginable.
I went a little crazy with the outfit, but it was worth it. Got lots of compliments, the fur kept me warm on the first two very chilly nights, and the leg wraps were just a blast to wear.
I actually had a second outfit which I didn't get photos of, since I wanted one day to be completely, 100% picture-free. But it was another fur situation, a head-to-toe husky outfit that Terence wore the hood and tail of so we'd match.
Seriously high production value, exceptionally cool stage design, and always something interesting to look at. And which you can see, even if you're at the waaaaaay back of the crowd.
Could not even deal with his giraffe ears and purple lens sunglasses.
Those pink leopard wraps I layered on top of the black wraps were UV-reactive, which was fun. You can see the full, frontal ridiculousness of my ensemble in the video at the bottom.
By far my favorite thing about Nocturnal, and the reason I will definitely return, is how spacious the grounds are. Look at all that land to spread out on! HardSummer events, in my experience, tend to be oversold and uncomfortably jam-packed. So this was heaven as far I'm concerned. Even the most crowded tents weren't that bad, and still had plenty of breathing room. In fact you can see in the video that I'm dancing with lots of space around me, even at the busiest time of the night.
The sound was phenomenal, even this far back. Well done, Insomniac.
THOSE EARS THO.
There are costumed performers walking around all evening, interacting with the crowd and creating vignettes. Burlesque dancers, stilt walkers, clowns, etc. Insomniac does a great job of bringing the masquerade theme to life, which makes attendees feel welcome to dress ridiculously themselves. We saw so much spirit, I loved it. Really, I was massively impressed with the crowd in general. This was the first festival ever where I experienced no pushing, no shoving, no rudeness whatsoever.
Kandi bar!
We opted for VIP because the older I get, the more of a baby I am about PortaPotties (and waiting in long lines for them). VIP festival restrooms tend to be the larger, cleaner trailer restrooms. (Which these were.) Other perks of VIP: no waiting to get in every day, you just breeze right through security, plus Nocturnal had a smallish, cordoned off VIP section to the left of the Labyrinth stage which was kinda nice. Yet another perk of VIP? That's where all the other olds hang out.
The crowd was wonderfully chill and friendly. Similar to Bonnaroo, but even better, more social energy. And really respectful of one another. Several people approached me to ask about where I'd gotten my hood and gloves, to dance, or to just trade kandi. I loved this whole back section behind the Labyrinth stage where people spread out under the electric trees to watch and talk and dance. You can see how much room there was to move around.
Best sets: Lane 8, Sasha, Booka Shade, Kaskade, Sander Van Doorn, Armin Van Buren, Slander, Sylence, Orjan Nilsen, Ummet Ozcan, Bingo Players, Nicole Moudaber, Tensnake, Audien. My only disappointments were Donald Glaude (who kept obnoxiously killing the sound to rally the crowd like a bat mitvah DJ) and Pretty Lights, who did a much, much more mellow set than I've ever seen him do before.
Between us we got a decent amount of video, but I only threw together a little bit of it. There's a few clips of me dancing, because fun/ridiculous, there's the glove/light show kid I referenced in my previous post, and finally there's some Lane 8, who I shared recently in a Fri-Ni Jamz post and who absolutely, without question, was our favorite set of the weekend. What a talent, and what a cool, humble guy. I hope he keeps rocketing to stardom, I really do.
late night arrival
October 22, 2015
The drive up from Atlanta is an easy, straight shot, but I’m watching the remaining minutes tick down on my GPS. So tired. Grab a Coke from a drive-thru. Is Pepsi okay? Dude, I don’t even know if we have soda in southern California anymore. There's a Whole Foods opening two blocks from my building next month, and good thing, because if anyone sees you buying regular chicken in DTLA these days you're written off as an environmental terrorist. So yeah, Pepsi's okay.
(I'm a little punchy from travel.)
Things start to look familiar, as much as they can in the dark. But these roads are snaky and long; I know one wrong turn and I'll be deep into someone's private driveway before I realize I'm off track. I know from my last visit that Google Maps is a bit wonky around here.
Twice I end up exactly as predicted: doing a three-point turn on a treacherously steep private road. I'm trying to stay calm but this is exactly why I didn't want to take a later flight. I hate driving at night. And rural driving at night? Shoot me now. Only not really, please don't. I'm getting off your property as quickly as possible, I promise.
The comedy of the situation hits me and I pull over to the text the friend who's to blame. The one who made me miss the red-eye last night and push my flight to this afternoon. We had this discussion, damn it. I don't want to show up at midnight, that's obnoxious, I'd said. Also stupid. It's really difficult to drive around there past sundown. I was laughed at. Okay, grandma.
I hate your guts right now, I text. I am so fucking lost. I take and send an ominous picture: my headlamps lighting up a few feet of dirt road and a patch of forest.
What happened to GPS?
IT'S A LAKE THERE ARE NO LIGHTS OR ROAD SIGNS
You shouldn't be driving at night in a place like that.
I just found Burt Reynold's body.
I heard you're a good swimmer.
The laugh chills me out. I can do this. I'm only praying Bill and Hannah haven't waited up for me. I feel like such a moron for coming so late already.
Finally, streets I recognize. Yes! I know the way from here. I relax enough to roll down the windows and start taking it in. Apple-crisp air, a whiff of dry smoke. Barely, just barely I can make out the colors on the trees.
I pull slowly into the driveway I can tell they've boxed their own cars into tightly, to leave me room. Peering up at the house, everything looks sleepy and quiet. Maybe they really did go to bed like I begged them to.
After stuffing the things that have spilled from them back into my bags, I quietly slither out the rental car door, bracing for the dogs' warning barks. They're quiet, though, and I'm encouraged. Maybe, just maybe, I can get my things out of the Jeep, across a (crunchy) leaf-strewn driveway, through a latched gate, up two flights of creaky stairs (and under the glare of a motion-activated security light), through a screen door and a sliding glass door - all of which has been left open in expectation of my arrival - without waking anyone up.
I will be...Ninja Ellie.
First, though, I take a minute to walk across the road and gaze breathlessly at the lake. Black-silver ripples. Heavy disc of a moon hanging above, giving it that seductive shimmer. Cold and beautiful and perfect. Too dark for pictures but I try anyway.
Okay. I said hello to Lake Burton. Now to sneak in unnoticed.
For the next several minutes I move through a painstakingly slow process of zipping, locking, unlocking, opening, reopening, turning off the left car interior light, turning off the right car interior light, and finally clutching my three bags as I tiptoe across the property and make a game of moving through the various barriers noiselessly. Like a game of Operation. And I win. I win! I get all the way upstairs and into the sun porch before anyone twigs to my entrance. And when they do, it's Kim, Bill and Hannah's son...because he has waited up for me.
It's almost 1am. He's on the couch, dead-eyed in front of the TV. He spots me through the window and waves. I can't decide if I'm crushed to have kept him up or just delighted to be greeted.
We hug hello. When he confesses to not having heard me a caffeinated surge of pride washes over me. "I was like a ninja out there, right??" I giggle like a maniac. Travel punchy like whoa. Joey, one of the dogs whose detection I avoided, sniffs Chaucer on my things. He wags excitedly, not even mad at me for outsmarting him.
Hilariously, Bill texts to ask where I am. At this point I am giddy over not having gotten the dogs started with my arrival. I text back, letting him know I'm here and safe. I can hear his phone go off when the message goes through; he's literally twenty feet away, downstairs. But the TV is on and I can hear he and Hannah are in bed. I don't want to intrude so I resist the urge to walk down a few steps and call hello to them.
So quiet didn't hear you come in...good night.
Like a ninja! I'll see you in the morning.
Then the big, amazing surprise: Kim has given me his room for my stay this time. He's temporarily moved to the basement, cozy enough but nothing like his own space, which is lakehouse quintessence. Oak-framed picture window, thick beamed ceiling, bookcases anchoring the walls and wildlife frozen in mid-flight/swim across them. And a queen-sized bed for me to snuggle down into, in this 45 degree weather. It's a grand room. A room that lives up to its surroundings. A room to write a novel in - or at least a blog post here and there, when excitement shoves sleep out of the picture.
It's okay though. Among his other acts of hostly consideration, Kim knows to make the coffee strong when I'm in town.
Buzzard Mountain Lodge
October 25, 2015
The best thing about hanging out with 80-somethings is their gift of perspective. Name a problem in your life - they've been through it. Think of the things you're anxious about on a daily basis. Money? Marriage? Children? Health? Chances are they've been there, done that. And if you're fortunate enough to be in the company of wise and warmhearted 80-somethings, you can probably get some good advice about those things. You only have to ask and listen and learn.
(The second best thing about hanging out with 80-somethings is that they DGAF about blogging or selfies or social media, and can carry on a conversation without interrupting it every five minutes to look at smart phone...but that's an axe to grind for another day.)
I'm in the company of three 80-somethings this week, since one of Hannah's three sisters is here visiting as well. Norma is another of Mason's aunts, and I've met her before at her home in Visalia. It was she who invited me to join Mason for Thanksgiving back in 2012, after my dad died; she's the reason I ever met Bill in the first place.
So that's Hannah and Bill, their son Kim, and Hannah's sister Norma. Plus two dogs and, it is suspected, a significant if dwindling population of seasonal fleas. Me being the easily-overstimulated, somewhat shy, homesick wuss that I occasionally am - that means lots of breaks.
I take these breaks in my room, or on the porch, or mostly, venturing around the lake. I know Bill's end of it by heart now, and the homes and driveways that run alongside. Everything's exactly the same except decked in the gorgeous golds and reds and oranges of fall foliage. I'm trying to take different pictures than on my last visit but it's hard not to shoot the familiar sights I wander past. I text Bill's friend and neighbor Woody a photo of his hammock, which is littered with dead leaves. Want me to rake your hammock for you?
Please do and enjoy the view until I get there. Take a nap for me. He's coming today (their lakehouse is he and his wife's second home) and word is Bill has blackmailed him into taking us out on the pontoon. I refuse to go unless we're accompanied by Woody's labradoodle Zoe and at least one bottle of wine, but something tells me these requirements won't pose a problem.
And I expect we'll have the water nearly to ourselves. There's been barely any boat traffic since I've got here. It's cold out there and it's really just the few perennial residents around these days, anyway. Which means I don't see a soul on my walks. Which makes my ridiculous selfie sessions much less embarrassing.
I lucked out with the weather. Clear blue skies the first day, and nearly eighty degrees. The sunshine set the trees alive with light, making them even more vibrant than I'd imagined. In the afternoon the wind picked up, and I was able to get some slow-motion video of leaves raining down one at a time. The second day was cloudy and chilly, so I had an excuse to wear my favorite parka. (And overcast skies always make for more forgiving portraits.) Bill jokes that his area of Lake Burton is the ghetto section, but he doesn't realize how ideal it is for photography. At one end there's a hair pin turn with a cluster of trees forming the perfect canopy overhead; at the other, by the marina, there's a narrow, quiet drive flush with color. Plus there aren't massive houses on huge plots blocking views of the water. "All those big estates have fancy names," he say. "Land's End and The Wilds and stuff like that. So I've decided I'm gonna call my house Buzzard Mountain Lodge."
My schedule is basically charge phone, explore, return to the house, hang out and talk/eat while my phone charges, then head back out for more exploring.
Hannah does her makeup at the kitchen table while I drink coffee and try (with futility) to get a cell phone signal so I can catch up on Instagram. "You're making me look bad," I complain. No makeup for this lazy visitor. I barely manage khakis and a nice sweater for dinner. "Well," she jokes, applying the same brand of mascara I use, "I don't want to scare the neighbors."
From the minute I emerge in the morning until I shuffle to bed Hannah plies me with everything she can think to. I am shown and re-shown stores of fruit, cereal, crackers. Assured I'm welcome to anything, anytime. Today she took me to a pantry off the dining room, and opened a low cabinet. "Looky here," she said. "Any kinda tea you want." She pulled out a few tins to read me their labels. Leafed through a box of assorted single-serve teas, naming them off. Pried the lid off some ginger peach for me to smell before she made a pitcher of it. It smelled like the night cream I wore years ago.
They all worry I don't eat enough, which is silly since I'm stuffing my face right in front of them. (LA keeps me healthy enough; when I'm on vacation all bets are off.) But I substitute coffee for breakfast, which is a most worrisome crime in their eyes. Most important meal of the day, everyone born before 1950 knows that. Plus I'm considered dead skinny by the older generation's standards. Though who hasn't had a grandparent fret over their thinness? I don't mind it. It feels like a kind of love.
Bill is like me: sensitive about his cooking. He watches to see how enthusiastically it is consumed; I do the same. And in me he's found the ultimate fan. I have genuinely loved every goddamn thing he's made. He's got a great taste for seasoning and a light touch on the burner. We're both meat lovers, too. When I wax effusive he grins gratefully. "Boy I tell you what," he teases. "These twisted sisters, they don't appreciate me one bit. No one ever compliments my hard work in the kitchen." The twisted sisters titter and Bill winks at me over the Bordeaux. They've been tittering over him for the better part of sixty years; of all the Back when I was ____ stories, I love the courtship ones best of all. Apparently when they were all in their twenties, he started inviting himself over for Sunday dinner, which turned into Friday dinners as well...then coming for meals almost every night. "I had to," he objects. "All my money went to pay my liquor bill." Another wink.
On Thursday he smoked ribs and I nearly made myself sick gorging on them. Homemade barbecue sauce, too, that he was afraid I wouldn't like. Honey and mustard and whiskey and other goodness whisked in a tall mason jar. Today I sat and watched him make a special loaf of gluten-free bread for his sister in law. Sift, measure, stir, pour into simple tin pans. Concentrating but relaxed; a ritual he respects and enjoys. I could watch it every day. When the loaf he makes for everyone else comes out too sour, he's quick to warn us. "You're gonna need a lotta butter," he says, as I reach for a slice.
"No way, I'm dipping it in the au gratin sauce." From scratch, not a box. Cheese and cream and milk and butter and boiled potatoes. Two heaping helpings. Yeah, I'm eating plenty.
Ziggy and Joey eat plenty, too, the scamps. You've never seen such spoiled little dogs. Tonight Hannah asked if she could clear my dessert dish. Vanilla ice cream with fresh raspberries and slivered almonds. "If you're finished I'm gonna give the rest to the dogs," she says.
"It's got Kahlua on it!"
"Oh that's okay," she laughs. "I don't mind if they get a little drunk."
They deserve it. Sweetest dogs ever. Joey the Papillon keeps guard outside my door at night and Ziggy, the cocker mix (Bill calls him a "Crapsalot"), greets me on the stairs when I come home. He also supervises my midnight snacking, sitting beside me as I nosh on the saltines and ginger snaps in the dark kitchen. Hannah, knowing my tendency to raid the fridge at ungodly hours, has left these out for me on the counter, along with peanut butter and cocoa.
The only thing sweeter, in fact, than the two little dogs is Bill's affection for them. They vie for his attention and his lap all day long, and he is unsparing with both. When we go for a leaf-peeping drive down to the end of the lake, Ziggy rides along in the backseat. His smile suggests he knows how lucky he is, to be here in this peaceful paradise.
I certainly do.
Sunday Dispatch
October 26, 2015
The fact that I've become close with my best friend's aunt's husband is strange and wonderful enough on its own, I think. One of those unexpected connections in life that keep it interesting. But there's an extra bit of coincidence that kicks things up another notch on the Well isn't that something scale, and it's this: both Bill and Hannah worked where I live, in downtown Los Angeles, decades before I was even born. They frequented places I do now, in 2015.
Hannah worked for the telephone company, both in Los Angeles and further north. You can hear the pride in her voice when she talks about it. From the multiple transfers she was granted to follow Bill as he career took off, it sounds like she was a well-appreciated employee. They tease one another about it now. Oh give me a break, says Bill, grinning at me when she pretends to be overcome by household duties. You haven't worked in ages. Hannah fires back: Well that's because we kept moving around. I transferred as many darn times as I could! Bill, more softly, reflecting: Yeah, but you raised my boys. That's the best thing you did.
As a kid, Bill shined shoes in Pershing Square - one of Chaucer's daily destinations. He lived in Boyle Heights, and a trip to Clifton's Cafeteria - a place I've been many times - was considered a fancy meal on the town. My mother used to dress me up like little Lord Fauntleroy, oh boy. I told him Clifton's recently underwent a massive, multimillion dollar renovation and reopened as a night club; two of its five floors have bars now. The ground floor cafeteria is restored to its former glory, too; I ate there with Kerry and Ross not a month ago. One of these days he's going to have to come visit me so we can go for some meatloaf and jello. And cocktails upstairs afterward, naturally.
Tonight Bill asked if I knew the old Sears building in Boyle Heights. I do; it's a famous landmark seen easily from the freeway. Terence and I would always comment on it, on our way to Whittier Narrows. It's nine stories tall, comprises over one million square feet, and has an interesting history involving Oscar de la Hoya's childhood (facts I Googled on the drive to Whittier Narrows). The full name of the building is the Sears, Roebuck & Company Mail Order Building, a mouthful that calls to mind flipping through catalogs as child, laying on the floor in my dad's den. There was no greater thrill than a package from Sears, circa 1980, in my home in St. Joseph.
Well, Bill used to work there. Back from the service, a fresh-faced twenty something, he got a job filling the exact sort of orders our parents used to place, pre-internet. Clothing, toys, appliances. He told me about the chute that ran down from the top floor to the basement. About how workers would scurry around, wrapping up dolls and bicycles on one floor, toasters and tools on another, and send them down the chute for packaging and shipping. Some of them - including Bill - even wore roller skates to get around quicker. We'd go whizzing around, every once in a while you'd plow into someone, though... He laughs, remembering.
You can't hear these stories and not feel an instinctive longing for simpler, sweeter times. Then you remember that no time is ever really simple, or all that sweet. Still.
Anyway, that was my favorite story from today. There was another fantastic one, told over wine and cookies after dinner, involving a broken ankle and a cake pan...but I probably wouldn't get any more wine and cookies if I told it.
I can hear the rain starting up. We knew it was coming this week, and it'll probably be going strong until I leave Wednesday. It'll probably cancel the boat trip with Woody, and maybe also the full moon night hike he and his wife invited me to join them on. But I can't help loving it. I've taken more leaf-peeping photos and videos than I could ever want, and seen every inch of the lake I can get to on foot. Some quiet time in the house reading will be nice.
I almost forgot: tonight we're having Thanksgiving dinner. Yesterday morning when I heard Bill ask Kim to bring up a turkey from the downstairs freezer so he could brine it, my jaw hit the floor. I knew exactly what he was up to. Bill, I scolded. You didn't. Please say you didn't get a turkey for my sake. I stopped there, just thinking the rest to myself. Because you know I'm not going to have much of a Thanksgiving this year. You know Terence will be with his family and my usual Thanksgiving crew will be gone. That's when he and everyone started claiming they cook a turkeys all the time. Except this evening there'll also be stuffing and cranberries, and Woody's bringing a pumpkin pie. So I'm not buying a bit of it. Not one bit. These people can pretend their hearts aren't as big as they are, but I'm no fool.
The Magnificent Maple
October 27, 2015
I met the most magnificent maple. She lives down at the marina, right at the water's edge. In the summer she watches boaters come and go. Styrofoam coolers and cranked-up stereos. Water skis, life jackets, and excited shouts. In the winter, she sees snow silence the mountains around a still, steel-blue lake. In the spring she bears witness to winter's promises having been kept yet again. Rebirth and renewal, bloom and blossom. But I met her in the fall. And in the fall she herself is the thing to see.
The maple I met understands the inevitability of change. She meets it head on, with patience and grace. The wind chills her limbs and the sun dries her sap, and she blushes in anticipation of her impending bareness. Her blushes are a fiery riot of red and orange; they'll take your breath away. She captivated me from the moment I saw her, and I returned every day to watch her transformation.
I stood underneath her branches, close to her trunk, and looked up. I heard whispers passing between her and the sky, and the sun winked at me as if he too knew their secrets. A beetle cleaved to a knot in her bark, unbothered by what she was going through. Nature's apathy, writ tiny. At my feet were the leaves she'd shivered off, all sizes, their pigment faded to various degrees. Some as wide as my palm, and wine dark. Some no bigger than silver dollars, and peach, with pale pink tips. I couldn't help myself; I gathered them up by the handful. Each seemed more perfect than the last, and I piled them on top of one another, carefully aligning their maraschino cherry stems.
I carried these pieces of her away with me. They were still pretty, still smooth and pliable with the life she'd given them—but they were fast becoming memories to her, and I knew she wouldn't mind my taking what she'd already lost. Besides, I wanted to try and make something beautiful with them. It's always worth trying, I think, to make something beautiful of the things we lose.
The Rain Came
October 28, 2015
Well, the rain came. Misty floating pillows of it, directionless and soft. Unthreatening, it promised not to interfere with anyone's plans. Then I guess it changed its mind, or just got tired of holding its own weight, and the tin roof above me became a drum. In the pitch black bedroom I pulled up the covers and listened. Each drop was a glass marble surrendered by a sky too full to keep them. Hundreds of marbles fell, then thousands, until the wind stepped in and picked up a slingshot, and the marbles hit with such ferocity I expected to see moonlight piercing through at any moment.
The rain loosened the soil on the cliff above the house, shaking down small stones and clumps of earth. I had the sensation of being buried alive, and with each crumbling patter I pictured faceless mourners tossing handfuls of dirt onto a casket.
It woke me up periodically, from feverish dreams that either made no sense or too much of it, I'm not sure which. One saw Terence embracing me lightly from behind, turning my cheek to kiss me with an adroitness I hadn't remembered ever knowing. He evaporated, leaving me melting and unsure, and standing at the edge of a shallow pond. Someone dared me to wade to the center of it. And when I did, I found a circle of my friends scowling at me in disappointment. I didn't know what I'd done; I only knew I'd confirmed their worst suspicions.
We had a sort of Thanksgiving. The family, myself, and three neighbors whom I tried terribly hard to impress. They must wonder who the hell I am, I thought uncharitably of myself—of them. What gives with this stranger, this interloper from across the country? She is not blood. Where is her own family?
Woody, of course, knows the answers to those questions now, and probably wouldn't ever have asked them anyway. He and his wife (tennis buff, no nonsense but quick to laugh) brought spaghetti squash, sea-salt dark chocolate caramels, a pumpkin pie the size of a manhole cover, and a bottle of Sauternes. The Sauternes really deserves its own post, honey bright and smooth and lip-licking sweet. It was my first, which made it special to me. And it was the first Sauternes Bill has had in decades, which made it special to him. He and Hannah used to order it as a young couple in California—I believe he said on trips to Mendocino. His face when he spoke of it—laughing about how little he knew of wines back then—briefly lost all of those decades. Woody, too, had a Sauternes story to tell. A group of nine friends, gambling one day on a $900 bottle they had to split, well, nine ways. $100 per man, for about a sip. Worth every penny.
Today the rain abandoned all restraint, laughing at me, spitting in my face as I stubbornly rounded up the last day's worth of photos. The wind turned Hannah's umbrella into a sail, and I nearly toppled into the water trying to take a selfie at the end of the dock.
I didn't have a great day today. Sleep has evaded me all week for a combination of reasons, twisting my nerves into a bundle that threatened to snap at the slightest provocation. And provocation came tonight, in the form of a nasty burn running the length of my forearm. I was making vegetable chowder (Hannah liked it so much the last time I made it) and I stupidly used a short-handled cup to ladle some of it into the blender. My elbow grazed the lip of the pot and I jumped, splashing piping hot soup onto myself, my favorite navy cashmere sweater, and the floor.
Everyone swarmed to help me. To clean up my mess, to treat my burn, to fetch me painkillers. Their solicitousness sent me sailing over the edge, and I had to brush tears—humiliating, childish tears—from my cheeks so I could see to finish my cooking. At the table the meal was subdued, heavy with the tone I'd set with my overreaction, and it wasn't long before Bill's gentle prying unleashed the truth underneath the ostensible reason for my tears. I was exhausted, anxious about returning home, lonely for friends who wouldn't be there when I got back, and generally in a storm of self-doubt.
Not exactly the note I wanted to leave on. I mean, I didn't say all that, though the subject of my breakup did come up momentarily. But they could see I was fraught with worry and sleeplessness, and Bill ordered me to bed early.
That was seven hours ago; only one of which I slept for.
Oh god, here it comes again. I wish you could hear it. Great gusting sheets, surging suddenly just now as if desperate to drown out my bleating self-pity. Or maybe gently wash it away. Maybe the rain is a friend tonight.
Anyway, friend or foe, it turned the lake and its surroundings into a crayon box today. It wicked the leaves down from trees that weren't ready to release them; they were still too bright, too alive. They lay stunned on the ground—a wet, waxy palette of goldenrod and ochre, strawberry and chartreuse. I feel guilty filtering pictures of them, like I'm adding salt to food that's already plenty seasoned. So only the tiniest bit, to make sure their vibrancy comes through loud and clear.
The sound of the rain, though—that you'll have to imagine. And now, for me, sleep—though maybe I'll have to imagine that.
cat sitting live blog
November 12, 2015
So here's a fun thing that's happening today. I'm cat sitting for Ross and Kerry, not because they're out of town, but because there's a shoot happening in the apartment next door to theirs. When that happens, the film crew needs an overflow space—another apartment, typically, where they can store furniture, props, etc. during the shoot. Production companies pay a lot of money to residents willing to be temporarily displaced for this. And normally, my friends would stash their cats in boarding for the day, collect a check for their trouble, and head to work. Today, however, they were unable to board the cats (long story). And rather than decline the opportunity and miss out on a very nice compensation check, they called me to duty.
I'm pretty sure I'm one of the highest earning cat sitters in the country today. And I know I'm the only one being paid to live blog it.
My job is to make sure the cats stay safe and out of the way and none of my friends' property is damaged in the chaos. And oh wow is it chaotic. And loud. So chaotic and loud I'm not exactly sure what I could get done other than just watch. I brought a book but concentrating on Faulkner would be impossible. So I'm gonna live blog this shit. I've never done a live blog and I'm not really sure how it works other than hitting refresh when I add to the post, but we'll wing it. Yes yes?
8:00 am - The crew is moving, hauling, taping, putting down mats, setting up tables. Ross is getting ready for work and I'm settling into the sofa for the day. Angled to see all the action and keep an eye on the staircase. The cats, Jumper and Gutch, have been shooed upstairs. Gutch is cowering terrified in the closet but Jumper is basically like a dog and will want to mingle with the crew and wander onto the set next door. I meet the location manager, Stacy, who briefs me and invites me to eat lunch with the crew later today. Fun!
8:45 am - Ross leaves for work. I take over.
9:00 am - "Ready to go," I hear someone say into a walkie talkie. A woman grabs a silver tumbler filled with plastic holly berries from a pile of props and heads back next door. It's a Christmas-themed shoot. A promo for The Walking Dead. Apparently there will be zombies on set. Fuck yeah.
9:04 am - Jumper tries to make a break for it down the stairs. Here we go.
9:08 am - There are a lot of men in flannels and puffy vests stomping around this loft. Like, more stomping men in flannels and puffy vests than exist anywhere outside of Alaska, I'd wager.
9:10 am - Oh yeah, Jumper is going to make me earn every cent today. I have to sit on the stairs to block her descent.
9:18 am - Everyone is talking about burritos downstairs. "Did you get a burrito downstairs?" "I had a burrito downstairs. I'm good." No burritos up here, though. I am intrigued by the Myth of the Downstairs Burrito.
9:42 am - A man with an Australian accent is separating threads of tinsel from Christmas ornaments with great frustration. Oi, I feel your pain, mate. Gaffers are wheeling in load after load of equipment. The loft is crammed full of crap. I'd be having an anxiety attack if it was my place. No wonder they pay so much. I'm back to the couch, since even Jumper seems overwhelmed.
9:57 am - I just met Dan, the director. He's like a younger, hipper Bob Balaban. Craft services is setting up a table right in front of where I'm sitting. Location manager Stacy jokes that this is good news. "All kinds of snacks right within reach! Or maybe it's bad news, if you're like me and will eat all day." I don't know what to say to this. The apartment is filled with the smell of pastries. Maybe I should retreat upstairs with my Faulkner. I'm probably creeping the crew out, lol.
10:12 am - I've moved upstairs and am chillin' with Jumps on the bed. A reader just emailed, slightly alarmed by the content of my previous post. Worried I'm going to get myself arrested. It's all good, I wrote back. I'm not going to jail, I promise. And if I do I'll demand wifi so I can keep everyone entertained. A couple of guys downstairs are having a very enthusiastic discussion about tape. "It's the most incredible double stick tape you've ever seen. It's called Killer Red." Ten more hours to go. I wonder if I can take a nap.
10:34 am - I peer over the railing and this is what I see on the tables below. Creepy masks, cupcakes, and enough munchies to feed a zombie army. Lurching around and groaning is apparently hungry work.
10:51 am - People everywhere. I hear snippets of a dozen conversations.
"Someone’s running to Target for it.”
"We should really use the polka dots instead.”
"I understand your point.”
“My mom used to make dinner for us. It was a can of tomato soup, white toast, and Welsh rarebit.”
“Don’t turn it on! Don’t turn it on!”
“Wardrobe might wanna look at his socks."
Every free square inch of space in this home is being used. I can barely get to the bathroom without climbing over stuff. A stocky, mustached security guard ambles in, his thumbs hooked on his waistband. He looks around approvingly. I can’t look around without cringing. Back upstairs I can hear a glass being filled from a water cooler. They brought a water cooler in here??
11:35 am - Okay yeah the novelty of this experience has about run out. They've propped the doors open so it's freezing in here, I'm too shy to take any food even though I'm starving, and everyone's whispering is making me sleepy.
12:01 pm - The propmaster is doctoring zombie masks according to direction getting relayed from next door. Aussie guy is explaining to her in detail what they want. "Yeah, and if you could just make it hanging askew, with the blood, right? So the skin folds back like this? Gonna take a while though so you'd better get crackin'."
12:19 pm - Director to propmaster: "I wanted to show you that. That is the trajectory we're going for. So my question is, how far can we go with this? Can we have more blood splatter? Again, as far as the blood matching up, my only concern was that I didn't want to be gratuitous about it. But I sort of feel like there should be some blood on the cake. So just a little bit more hair, and we can go further with the airbrushing, okay?"
12:33 pm - "WILL SOMEONE PLEASE PUT SOME SHOES ON THE ACTOR?!? THANK YOUUU!" Sounds like somebody needs a cupcake.
1:09 pm - Everyone went to have lunch in the lot downstairs. Doors are still propped open and people are in and out though, so I can't leave the cats. But that's okay because I brought pine nut couscous, which someone just caught me shoveling into my face just now when they crept up the stairs to check out the bedroom and patio above. "Cmmm ahp," I garbled. Gutch was emboldened enough by the relative quiet to go sun herself on the top stair where the light comes in. Jumper is snoozing beside me. I think I'm gonna swipe a cinnamon roll and then start The Reivers.
3:58 pm - Text to Terence: I just realized that whenever I want you to stop talking and shut up immediately all I have to do is yell "Rolling!" Him: LOLOL
6:45 pm - Oh hai. Preceding hours were just more of the same. I got tired of eavesdropping and listened to music, sneezing every thirty-five seconds or so. Cats: my only allergy. Anyway. Gutch is over it. Jumper is over it. Ellie is over it. Zombieland live blog is over and outttt.
