bodies bodies bodies
[Fair warning: this one is about death.]
Last year, right around this time, three in a row: Amy (cancer, fast); Jess (cancer, slow), and Sparrow (brain tumor). Sparrow was a dog, not that it made much difference; I had dried my tears with the curls of her coat, and sat on the floor too early in the morning, feeding her breakfast by hand when she was too anxious to eat. I had recently myself been too anxious to eat. I had a body and a mind I didn't know how to trust, and yet she trusted me. She snuffled around, considered the options. She ate out of my open palm.
Just two, this year, so far, anyway, but each of them its own shock. Ham Cat's kidneys had tried to give up the ghost last year, and we convinced them to hang on for a while longer, but not forever, it turned out. Then, a few days ago, Alan. Drugs. It feels weird to use his name.
He's in the first two editions of this Tinyletter as A. There he is seven years ago, hosting a karaoke party, having a desultory 6am conversation with me about what it means to write about people. Kissing me, afterwards, for the first time. Looking at me like I was a wonder, laid out in his bed in the morning light. Saying over and over again: "I can't believe you're really here."
His body and mine in those sheets, in cars, his knees knocking against mine under restaurant tables. Hammer coming into my room in the middle of the night, nudging me onto my side so that he could curl up next to my heart. I have an old shirt of Amy's, and a dress; they fit me like a glove. I never would have guessed that we were the same size.
I spent last week in Northern California: Marin, and then Santa Cruz. The redwoods were so tall, and from the top of the cliffs the ocean seemed bigger than it ever does at the shore. I find it very comforting that the world is so big, and so wild. I'm a very tiny part of the whole thing, humming along as best I can. Just an animal seeking warmth and comfort, and lucky to find it every time.
Five friends, five bodies in the ground. Gravesites I will and won't visit. The bad hours between us; they were part of it, too. Alan and I hadn't spoken for years when he died. And we probably wouldn't have spoken much again, if he had lived.
I miss each of them differently. I miss each of them so much.
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Also, because I am alive, and have bills to pay, I have work to tell you about. I'm writing a series for Descript called How They Made It, which is about how independent podcasters got their shows off the ground. The first two profiles are of Karina Longworth and Traci Thomas. I love process conversations, and hearing about how much non-creative work goes into being a successful creative, so these are particularly special to me.
I wrote another episode of Scamfluencers! This one is about JT LeRoy, gender, literary fame, and pretending you have AIDs so people will feel sorry for you.
& finally, my class on Sex and the Novel remains open for enrollment.