Back to 1979, where I discover a letter from an old friend, Mary Aubrey, born of Scottish parents in Kenya (or spent her childhood there, I don't remember which). Her father was a member of the colonial police force, and she remembers the MauMau uprising, and hiding under the furniture in the house. I haven't seen or heard from Mary since around 1980 or so, and I miss her, so if anyone here knows anything about where she may be, please let me know. The last I heard, she was with a lesbian feminist group (I think) called CIRCA in Northhampton, Massachusetts. She had beautiful black hair, and brilliant blue eyes.
Friday, April 18, 2003
Thursday, April 17, 2003
Okay, so I was having this little vision last night, when I heard that there are a preponderance of Americans who think the Iraqis are ungrateful to us for coming in to bring them freedom, and I was thinking, well, if I were a woman with three kids and an abusive husband, but I was dealing with it the best I knew how, and I was thinking of ways to get myself and my children out of there, but it just wasn't possible yet, and someone else decided that I had had enough, and that they would come and save me (but they had really heard that someone was going to put a mini-mall where my house is, and that the property would be worth a small fortune, if only they could get their hands on it cheap) and - I know, I know - there should be a period in here somewhere - but it doesn't feel right, so I'll just start a new paragraph to break things up a bit
they come in with guns, chase my abusive husband all over the house, firing at him, and killing one of my children and maiming the other in the process, and somehow my husband escapes through the basement and someone puts a hole in a propane tank we have stored down there and then sits down to light a cigarette and wonder where he could have gotten to, blowing himself and my house to smithereens in the contemplative process, so that now I am alone with no visible means of support, one dead child, one maimed and one traumatized beyond all hope, no roof over my head, and all the priceless antiques inherited from my family burned to ashes...
I am now free...
Am I grateful?
Oh, cool. This rich guy from across town just showed up offering to take my property off my hands. He can't offer market price, he says, since there are too many repairs to be made, but I'll have a small profit with which to restart my life.
they come in with guns, chase my abusive husband all over the house, firing at him, and killing one of my children and maiming the other in the process, and somehow my husband escapes through the basement and someone puts a hole in a propane tank we have stored down there and then sits down to light a cigarette and wonder where he could have gotten to, blowing himself and my house to smithereens in the contemplative process, so that now I am alone with no visible means of support, one dead child, one maimed and one traumatized beyond all hope, no roof over my head, and all the priceless antiques inherited from my family burned to ashes...
I am now free...
Am I grateful?
Oh, cool. This rich guy from across town just showed up offering to take my property off my hands. He can't offer market price, he says, since there are too many repairs to be made, but I'll have a small profit with which to restart my life.
Wednesday, April 16, 2003
Pieces of life from long ago:
I have a letter here from 1979. A boyfriend and I had just finished riding from Green Bay, WI to Seattle, WA on a Harley sportster. I have just graduated from the University of Wisconsin in Green Bay. I get a letter from a professor.
"Pleased to get a card. I've missed you.
"My many Washington friends and acquaintances assure me how splendid that country and Seattle are. Doubtless true. I almost went to graduate school there, coming down finally to a choice between Washington and Rutgers.
"I never plan to do anything in Pierre, South Dakota. I am in awe of your journey. Havind driven my VW Camper in the Big Horns in '75, I can appreciate the scenery more than I can understand your endurance.
"....."
Ït's a beautiful fall day. The world seems content and interesting. And almost safe. I have pondered your suggestion that I do something slightly dangerous. I ponder a lot, of course. You have a good point. But everything seems dangerous to me. Is dangerous.
"I read a lot - very dangerous books. I recommend The Culture of Narcissism as nearly perfect. The World According to Garp, too. And Love in the Western World, by Denis de Rougemont."
And here - a journal entry from a month later:
"Instead of the money we had yesterday, we have woven place mats and white plastic cups and red plastic bowls and a blue ceramic ashtray and they are sitting on the floor in the afternoon sun on a burnt orange rug in company with a red and white box of Marlboros, a red lighter and an empty carton of Yoplait raspberry yogurt, Yogourt avec des framboises. The floor is strewn with papers and books and playing cards and an empty can of Coors. It is not raining. We are not lying in the cover of bare autumn bushes with our faces in wet leaves, cold and sick and dying. With the rent paid as it is of now we will not be there (in the cold, wet leaves) until November. I'll worry in November."
I have a letter here from 1979. A boyfriend and I had just finished riding from Green Bay, WI to Seattle, WA on a Harley sportster. I have just graduated from the University of Wisconsin in Green Bay. I get a letter from a professor.
"Pleased to get a card. I've missed you.
"My many Washington friends and acquaintances assure me how splendid that country and Seattle are. Doubtless true. I almost went to graduate school there, coming down finally to a choice between Washington and Rutgers.
"I never plan to do anything in Pierre, South Dakota. I am in awe of your journey. Havind driven my VW Camper in the Big Horns in '75, I can appreciate the scenery more than I can understand your endurance.
"....."
Ït's a beautiful fall day. The world seems content and interesting. And almost safe. I have pondered your suggestion that I do something slightly dangerous. I ponder a lot, of course. You have a good point. But everything seems dangerous to me. Is dangerous.
"I read a lot - very dangerous books. I recommend The Culture of Narcissism as nearly perfect. The World According to Garp, too. And Love in the Western World, by Denis de Rougemont."
And here - a journal entry from a month later:
"Instead of the money we had yesterday, we have woven place mats and white plastic cups and red plastic bowls and a blue ceramic ashtray and they are sitting on the floor in the afternoon sun on a burnt orange rug in company with a red and white box of Marlboros, a red lighter and an empty carton of Yoplait raspberry yogurt, Yogourt avec des framboises. The floor is strewn with papers and books and playing cards and an empty can of Coors. It is not raining. We are not lying in the cover of bare autumn bushes with our faces in wet leaves, cold and sick and dying. With the rent paid as it is of now we will not be there (in the cold, wet leaves) until November. I'll worry in November."
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Nothing much to do the first day. I'm sitting at my computer, in the sunny part of my kitchen, looking out on a sunny yard filled with sugar magnolias and bluebells, thinking about the mayhem a world away and wondering if it will ever have anything to do with me. Knowing that it all has to do with me. I will be pulling out my notebooks and memorabilia from the last 40 or so years, and just basically remembering. I have no idea what it will turn into.
