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Monday, July 19, 2004

some highlights of my time with Carlos:

--Macrina Bakery, egg bialy sandwich loaded with smoky bacon. An array of baked goods lining the table. Coffee steaming hot. And we’re having breakfast on a summer day in Seattle.

--Strolling through the neighborhood on a slow morning, Carlos telling me about the chapters in his dissertation. I had been dreading the 250 pages to read, a bit. But when he talked, I could see the order in my mind. Editing is like that for me--deeply physical. It’s like unearthing ideas from a mound of dirt. It’s like whittling away everything that isn’t necessary to reveal the sculpted form below. And in giving this to a writer, I can see the liberation on his face. So four days of reading academic prose was worth it, entirely, for the joy in Carlos’ eyes.

--Walking through the PCC in Fremont, enormous windows pouring sunlight on the produce. Walking slowly, to smell everything around us. “Carlos, do you want some cherries?” He took one into his mouth, then closed his eyes, and moaned. I’ll take that as a yes. The cart quickly filling with rosy mangoes, black plums, sweet peaches, ripe blueberries, plump raspberries, and a dozen fresh vegetables for salads. God, the bounty of summer. Add to that, bright red wild Alaskan salmon steaks, a mound of herbed goat cheese made on Bainbridge Island, and blue cheese-stuffed Greek olives. I thought that Carlos would faint by the end of the store.

--Perambulating in Parsons Gardens, listening to Carlos talk about his job. And even though I care, I’ve heard him complain before. And those roses in the northwest corner are threatening to explode. So I lean down, close my eyes, and smell. Thoughts stop. I’m there.
Later, Carlos said, “I thought you were going to gobble up the flowers on that walk.”

--Bouncing in the pool and trying not to laugh in Carlos’s direction. Gamely, he was in Hydro-fit with me, at the outdoor pool. The sun shining on our heads. And Carlos nearly drowning. His waist belt wasn’t working, and he was flailing. He wasn’t naturally comfortable in the water anyway. But he was trying. And he was still talking. So he’d try to say a sentence, over the din of the senior citizens babbling to each other, and the inappropriate hip-hop music, and his head would bob backward. His dark curly hair was soaked. And suddenly, the water crept up above his mouth. He’d spray water everywhere and awkwardly thrash about until he was above the surface. And then do it again. When I pointed out that he could try these exercises in the shallow end, he moved like a drunken chicken toward the north end of the pool. And when he hit solid ground, he said, “Oh thank the lord in heaven!”

--Introducing Carlos to the joys of Unclefucker. I told him about the South Park movie, which he had somehow never seen. (And if any of you reading this has still not seen that movie, shame on you. Run and rent it now.) And the joys of listening to this song outside of Baraboo, Wisconsin with Sharon. So I found the mix cd in my case and slid it in to listen. And we laughed our full-throated chuckles together through the fart medley. And hit the button to play it again. We played it again and again. Walking through the house days later, Carlos would be softly singing, “Shut your fucking face, Unclefucker.” I made a mix cd for him, with that as the first song. And every day, we drove down 99 with the sunroof open, shouting the lyrics at the top of our heads, laughing.

--Stomping in the squishy black mud of the tidal pools with Elliott, on Vashon. He smeared himself with mud--all over his green shorts, his bare arms, his cheeks. Andy and Dana didn’t mind. Everything can be washed. So the little boy (clearly, no longer a baby) felt the mud between his toes, the squirt of clams beneath the surface, and the spray of water in his hair. And I was there to dance him around. Twirling him, his head and body spinning out, and all I can see is the wide smile on his face.

--Eating lunch at Fred’s Homegrown on Vashon, my brother and Carlos talking about the ease that being in a loving relationship with someone for years can bring. And listening to them both, instead of feeling jealous of their experience, all I could feel is how much I love them both.

--After dropping off Carlos at Tita and John’s, I drove Andy back to Lisabuela to join Dana and Elliott at the picnic. One last hug from the little guy. And then I’m on my own, for the first time in days. Driving the roads I once knew so well, the back roads of Vashon. And I turn up the music and roll down the windows, and drive back to Cove Road. Green trees and winding roads, houses only occasionally dotting the fields, and long minutes without any sign of human beings. Just arching trees and sky. For the first time in months, I’m enjoying driving.

--Dinner at Wild Ginger, Saturday night. Carlos and I talking about the people we both were seven years ago, when we met in that terrible graduate school class at NYU.

Introduction to American Studies. Eighteen turgidly written books in twelve weeks, which no one read. But everyone “interrogated” them, for hegemonic tendencies. And not only that, but every week, we had to answer the question: “What is American Studies?” Arrggh. It was like setting two empty mirrors against each other and watching the echo.

Carlos has said that he knew he wanted to be my friend on the last day of class. Our professor asked us to discuss, once again, “Just what is American Studies?” As we went around the circle, people spewed (and yes, I use that word deliberately) toadying statements about counter-hegemonic interrogations, questioning heteronormativity, and other mumblety-pegs I have blocked out deliberately. When the professor reached me, I looked up from the paper where I had been writing, and said, “Well, American Studies seems to me like an 18-year-old having an identity crisis. Full of wonderful, questioning energy, but lacking the solidity of an adult who knows who he is.” And then I went back to my crossword puzzle. The professor simply looked at me agape. Several students glared at me as though they would fling some of those turgidly written books at me. But I had spoken my piece. And thank goodness I gained Carlos’ friendship out of it.

So we talked about who we had been those early autumn days of 1997. And who we are now. God, I love being in my late 30s now. The calm. The quiet. The lack of need to impress. The way that watching the world feels far more important than watching myself. I can’t even imagine how great the 40s are going to be.

Oh, and the ahi tuna bruschetta was fantastic. And have you tried the lychee nut martini?

--After yoga classes, long hours of editing, Top Pot doughnuts on a sunny day, talking into the night, a party on Friday, brunches and dinners, laughter in silly giggles, and endless conversations about the dissertation, it’s time for Carlos to go home. Comfortable silence in the car on the way to the airport. One more Unclefucker at full blast as we approach the check-in drive. Long hugs at the curb. And the deepest feeling, of how vast and loving my life has become. New York, London, Los Angeles, Sitka, Seattle--these are my homes. And they have all been populated with people dear to my heart. Carlos, and a dozen more, in this summer alone. And the moments just keep coming. How much I have been given.

--Driving home, exhausted, looking at the schmutz in the sky from too little rain, sunroof open, Seattle in the distance, music blaring, and nowhere to go but home. The full pleasure of five days with Carlos. And now, time alone.

And now I can go back to my novel.

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