Three years ago

 

Today's writing

Jax smelled like himself. He breathed in in that Jax-way, almost a huff. A person is a person and they are their own being, regardless of whether you see them that way or not. It’s tempting to look at a herd of kids and think that they’re all the same, but they’re not. They all have their own quirks, their own ways. That’s how you recognize your own kid – you know how they run, how they cry, and yes, how they breathe.

 

“Babe,” I said, a litmus test. He hated that nickname.

 

But this morning he just leaned a little further into me. My eyebrows raised with surprise. I put my arm around him.

 

“Babe,” I said, “are you okay?”

 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I feel – weird.”

 

When I look back on that moment I think of one word: depression. It was in him that day and part of me recognized it, even though I didn’t want to admit or accept it. I could feel it. I could almost smell and taste it. When you give birth to someone, you’re linked. Whether you never speak to them again or you’re best friends for life or (probably) somewhere along the spectrum, that thread exists. Could be golden, could be burned, but it will never be cut.

 

Today's writing

Let’s cut to the chase: of course we found him. He’d gone to the café down the street, French Hotel, before it changed its name to something incomprehensible. We were just going down Shattuck asking various business owners if they’d seen a little boy, and the guys at French Hotel had. They’d set him up with a cookie and a hot chocolate and had just – as we walked in the door – found his phone number in his backpack.

 

“We were going to call you!” the guy at the counter crowed when we came in. “But you got here first!”

 

The hugs. Oh, the hugs. And still I was hyperventilating. I didn’t stop when we got back to the car. I didn’t stop on the drive home. I only stopped when we were safely behind our own front door.

 

And isn’t that the irony? Because in the end, that’s where it happened. In the supposed safety and security of his own bedroom. Instead, that’s what he planned within those walls. Right there in that small square of life. Planned and executed.

 

While I’m at it, I’m going to tell you the worst thought I’ve had through this whole thing: At least he didn’t go shoot up a school.

 

God forgive me.

We looked good pregnant

 

WordSpace residency

 

In my defense, I was stoned

But I kind of like this Facebook status:

Tonight I realized that Baz was sent to me. Divine intervention, you could call it. A message from beyond, sure. The heavens sighed, and a son was born.

All rea

Today's writing

I picture him in the hotel, getting the text, because he won’t get service in the cabin. It’s by design, isn’t it? The idea of disconnection as pleasure, as relaxation, as privilege. Cords dangling, swaying, trembling with the need for electricity, for use. There is no connection there, no energy. Just long, loud, yawning silence.

From 2013, unnamed agent

Thank you for letting me have a look at your proposal, BEARDED LADY.  I really like the idea of it, but, unfortunately, I didn’t  feel that the writing was strong enough for a memoir.  There is such competition around memoirs these days that the writing either has to be phenomenal or it has to be written by a celebrity.  I’m sorry not to have a better reaction.  I wish you the best of luck with your work.

Today

 

Talking to the class

I went to Baz's class today to talk about what I do for a living. I talked writing. They got it. I have to say, I think they really loved it. Who knew this is what I would do with my life? Who knew it could be this good?

Back from San Diego

 

Today's writing

I picture my hand on the knob, turning. Seeing his feet first, wondering stupidly how is that even possible? Then seeing the swinging, swaying.

 

I screamed. Howled. You little fucker. You can’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Rob came, pulled him down, did CPR. Too late. A little, a lot, we will never know. Unlike his time of birth, I have no idea of his time of death. No one told me, or if they did, I didn’t comprehend it.

 

I’d wanted more time. Less pressure. Less stress. Careful there with those wishes, with what you think would make your life better. A pair of swinging feet, a belt connected to a ceiling fan. A flushed yet somehow pale face. Quiet now, quieter than before. Quiet for good. Quiet for always.

Today's writing

In the car I let him control the radio. He plugged in his phone, queued up Nirvana, “About A Girl.” It was the MTV Unplugged version, the one where Kurt Cobain was filmed wearing a tan cardigan among candles and adoring fans. I’m standing in your line, I do hope you have the time …

 

“Thanks for coming out with me,” I said. It felt weirdly formal to be thanking him like that, this being who used to kick me from the inside out, but I meant it. We’d spent so little time together recently that this felt like a rendezvous of sorts, an adventure. When he was younger I took him everywhere: Sausalito, Pacifica, the train museum in Sacramento where he ran wild and wide-eyed, taking it all in. Always a great traveling companion. Always amenable to being strapped in, observing from the back seat. By the time he was old enough to travel shotgun, he was no longer interested. He started saying no, shaking his head, when I asked. Sorry, Meredith. Can’t today. No reason given. Never a reason. Just a simple refusal.

INXS, "New Sensation"

And the sun
Comes like a god
Into our room