NPR Homework at Mike's Wedding

Sunday when we were driving home from Portland (and Mike Rabby's wedding), I heard a request on All Things Considered. Their Homework segment is an opportunity for listeners to speak up about something, and in this week's segment they asked folks to write in about a song that meant something to them. The timing couldn't have been better - I was thinking about this all weekend. I was compelled to write.

Here's what I sent them:

A few weeks before his wedding, my high school friend Mike told me he had put a song in the dance mix to remember Dawn, a friend of ours who had died. He wouldn't tell me what the song was, but he expected me to know. There was only one song for Dawn, and the memory of it playing still makes me laugh and cry.

Twenty years ago we were all high school seniors, finishing our last semester of school, writing for our school newspaper and getting ready for prom, graduation, and college. One day during a particularly intense deadline run, we all stopped, put on some music and just danced. I remember Dawn, full of life, on a desk with her bra swinging overhead to Erasure's A Little Respect. The joy was palpable, the future ahead of us. Nothing could stop us.

A few days after graduation, Dawn learned she had a brain tumor. That fall when we all left for school, Dawn stayed behind, resentful and hurt. She died before Christmas.

Two days ago I stood in the sweltering heat dressed to the nines, watching Mike dance with his new bride, still wondering if that would be the song. It was. When it came on, there was a dizzying moment that felt like I'd jumped off a building - and I ran to the dance floor, hugged him, and we laughed and cried the rest of the song.

Postscript:
Two days after I submitted this, I got a call from NPR. They recorded my story for the coming weekend's Homework selection, and I'm now waiting to see if it got selected for the on-air spot.

On Again, Off Again

I have what amounts to a love affair with writing. Sometimes I want to bathe in it, enveloping myself in words, words, words. Other times I just want to be left alone to ponder and think about it. 'I need space,' I tell myself when I'm not in a writing mood. Such has been the last 10 months. And then before that, with my lame post entitled 'Accounting.' It was like reading one of those awful Christmas letters that people feel obliged to write and others feel obliged to snicker at in the company of those who know better. I've been so busy writing I haven't felt self-indulgent enough to document it. At least not here.

So I have no excuses and I won't give an accounting. You'll have to figure it out for yourself.

What's happening now? Immediately, I'm working on a blog for our garden and I'm about to quit my job at the Port and take a month off (see the right pane for a list of some things I want to work on during July!). We're starting the search for another dog. I still expect to hear Papa's voice answer the phone when I call Granny. It's the same thing as everyone else, life.

Stay tuned for more changes.

Tripping Over Myself

Sometimes I don't really realize I can break my own fall. Problem is, I'm responsible for the pace at which I move, the clumsy footwork and the sometimes searing, sometimes blinded focus that gets me into trouble.

I said only last week that I was having trouble writing. My friend Geoff and I talked about this a bit - he's a comedian, and it turns out, has noticed this too. When everything's good, the well dries up. The bitter seems overly bitter, the ascerbic too sharp. He joked that the best comedians were addicts of some sort - alcohol, drugs, pain, whatever - and I'd have to argue the same for good writers. Not that I fall into that category, but I understand how it's difficult to get that clarity when your world is so blindingly happy. It's when life is interrupted that the words flow so effortlessly. When things come into sharp relief it's usually a sign that something's amiss, even if it's just a little off. Or that it's all hormonal and lunar. I'll give you that.

So it's time to brace myself. I can see the ground approaching only because I know I've gotten sloppy in my walk. I don't need to be in a hurry, sometimes I forget that that's not the goal. Yes, there is a goal, but that's not the point. I don't have some Britney-driving-towards-stardom hunger. Sometimes I need to just slow down. I'm sometimes startled by my own intensity, god know what this does to those around me. If it drives you as nuts as it drives me, I'm so thankful that you're still here.

Blocked

Finally, a day has come when my brain is so full, my body so tired, and everything is all jumbled up that I can't write. More soon.

On Journaling...

I was cleaning out some boxes from my once-flooded storage unit here in Seattle when I came across a notebook that had served time as a journal. I've probably got 20 of these laying around, and each time they come up I spend some time reading and trying to piece together what was happening. Let's just say I'm a prolific writer. I'm also a sack of crap romantic - I can't get a line straight in my head without adding the dime words and the gothic-era emotions.

Anyway, this particular journal covered a year in the life...from falling for someone to rebounding with someone else to getting ready to leave for New York. It was a hard journal to read - but not as hard as those I found from 10 years ago that clearly showed the early signs of a marriage that wasn't working (that lasted another 5 years). But I picked it up again and started writing - the voice is older, a little more acerbic - but no less romantic. Guess some things never change.