#doingthings… alone

I’m a difficult person to be friends with because I prefer to do most things by myself.   I jotted this in my notebook at Barton Springs yesterday on a stunning early spring (in Austin spring begins around President’s Day) afternoon.  The water was blue, the pool nearly empty.   A perfect opportunity to suggest to a friend, let’s meet at Barton Springs.  Ah, but that word, meet, and its troubling implications.  Meet suggests that we’ll show up somewhere at a predetermined time, and presumably remain there, together, for a somehow at least vaguely understood spell.   Also a presumption of interaction.   I prefer to show up when I feel like it– maybe I decide to wash my hair first (well, not before Barton Springs), finish a chapter in a book, or re-walk my dog– and I like to be able to leave when I want to leave.  I must acknowledge how sickeningly privileged this may sound, and yeah, I have it better than a lot of people, but I live simply.  I am privileged to manage periodic chunks of time to spend writing, thinking, procrastinating or swimming because I have organized my life like that at the expense of things like husbands, stability, a retirement plan, a wardrobe of elegant clothes.  I do splurge on books, though, when able.

It’s more like me to say, I’ll probably be at Barton Springs sometime today with a book; if you feel like a swim, we can spread out towels near each other and enjoy the feel of warm sun on our bare legs.  Screen Shot 2020-02-26 at 7.12.13 PM.pngAnd if we do have the semi-planned serendipity to overlap on the weed-grassed banks, maybe we’ll also end up, together, in the outdoor women’s changing courtyard (though only if we feel like changing at the same time… and if you’re a woman),  marveling at the concrete overhangs, snapping photos of the etched rivulets with our shitty old phones, feeling the sun warm the cool damp places from which we’ve recently peeled off our warm still slightly wet bathing suits.  Baptized, desiccated, ecstatic.  Calm and electric, smelling of moss.  We’ll hug with authentic joy.  It may be a year until we see each other again. 


This summer I have the chance to spend two weeks at a writers’ residency on the island of Thasos, in the Thracian Sea.  Holy crow! I’d never heard of Thasos before; I’m ignorant of Greek geography aside from what I learned reading a children’s version of the Odyssey over and over and over again aloud to my younger son.  A few years ago, when the first waves of refugees were landing on Greek islands, I was deeply interested in taking my sons to Lesbos to have an adventure and lend our hands.  I’d read an article about another family who had done so, and their experience sounded powerful, something I wanted for my own.  I was too worried about the cost to move forward, one of the reasons I am trying not to let cost prohibit me from this opportunity.

So what do I know about Thasos?  Almost nothing.  I have a sometimes unfortunate obsession with logistics, so I know you fly into Thessaloniki to get there by by ferry.  I had a friend in high school who moved to that city (her parents were academics and her father had a position at the American University there, I think ) and invited me to visit.  I can not remember why I didn’t; maybe my parents wouldn’t let me–   again, the cost.  How have I never been to Greece?  The Germans probably have a word for what I feel:  a sense of entitlement due to past thwart.

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When I First Moved to Texas


24 years ago this month, it was to a six-week sublet near what used to be the edge of downtown (why in the world I’m still here is another story.)  I enjoyed the location, near a couple of restaurants and coffee shops, and next to a school that presented me with the unfamiliar sounds of children playing.  There was a moonlight tower on the corner that shone directly through a window onto my bed at night;  my periods got all out of whack until I rigged a black-out curtain, after which I started to miss the permanent moonlight.  I walked regularly to my local health food store, a place called Whole Foods.  I was low-level horrified that they sold meat; not the case at Integral Yoga Natural Foods in NYC, where I’d worked for awhile during college, enjoying the staff discounts for groceries, smoothies and yoga.  Whole Foods had just moved from its original location next to a gas station in a flood zone to a nice shopping center with a book store and I don’t remember what else.  There was a studio on the second floor where I studied Sufi mystical dance with a woman named Dunya.  I was into tarot and got goose bumps when I learned that her name meant “The World”.

IMG_3321Sometimes I drove to the shopping center, if I were on my way to or from somewhere farther away.  In Austin in general, I was struck by how many cars sported bumper stickers; I’d never lived anywhere that had such a culture of automobile decor as self-expression.   I remember pulling out of that particular parking lot behind an especially bedazzled vehicle ( the rule still seems to hold that the shittier the car the more likely to have stickers, and more shitty among the shit, the more stickers likely to be had).  It was then that the idea came to me to get a bumper sticker made that said, “Ask Me About My Abortion”.  

I loved this flash of inspiration.  I’d never had a bumper sticker.  I drove an old blue Mazda, so I had right raw material to work with, and it felt authentic to me as an artist to fabricate my own message.  I wanted to be inclusive, to bridge gaps, to start conversations.  To empower women.  To shine light into dark places, like the tower had done to my bedroom.  For me, the statement had the right mix of sass, humor and sincerity.  It felt provocative yet authentic.

But then I started to realize it might not be such a hot idea.  BBQ at the health food store, guns and Republicans just past the city limits (a new friend took me to the rodeo; he might have taken me to Mars).   Slapping that on the back of your car would be a good way to get your tires slashed, the New Yorker in me rationally positioned.  Or worse, the dubious stranger-in-a-strange-land in me replied.

Years passed, decades passed, yet I am really fucking tenacious when it comes to ideas.  Maybe this has to do with being a 5 on the Enneagram.  For years I gingerly unfolded emptied and dried hundreds of tea bags; it was perhaps ten years later that I got around to using them as part of an art project called The Dendochronology of Domestic Destruction (or something like that).   I still have the left overs in a  shoe box, waiting for another project.   This very blog I began in 2012, abandoned for several years, and voila now it’s risen from the dead.  After my second divorce, the event that inspired the DDD series, I revisited the “Ask Me” idea.  A t-shirt, I thought.  It should be something personal, worn on a body.

Ask me about my abortion.

A t-shirt….  might be asking for a gunshot wound.  I could always carry a vest to throw on over it…. but still.

Finally I settled on a baseball cap.  Easy to remove in a hurry.  This was pre-MAGA; I chose the red white and blue as a funny yet simple aesthetic statement.  I had several made, as I was certain they would be in high demand.  I did give one to an acquaintance as we met over lunch to discuss a business idea.  I hadn’t brought it for her, I was just wearing it myself, but she admired it so I let her take it home.  For most of our lunch it sat on the table off to the side next to a window overlooking the restaurant’s patio.  A cluster of gay men sat down outdoors, and began enthusiastically rapping the window, pointing to the cap, and giving us the thumbs up.

I rarely wear the cap.  Often I end up at an event and wish I’d brought it along, but it’s there in my pajama drawer, a reminder every time I see it of both my intention to create dialogue and the difficulty of following through on that intention.


The most interesting compliment

so far, I think, that I’ve ever received came from a man a bit older than me, I’d put him 60-ish. He’s a badass yogi who comes to my classes pretty often with his gorgeous wife, girlfriend, lover… they have different last names yet seem dedicated to each other, qualities I appreciate.

“I have the weirdest thoughts when I listen to your voice with my eyes closed,” he said after class recently.  Yikes? Wait-

“Today I thought:  this is how I want to die. I want to take ayahuasca in a hospice and listen to you talk me through to the other side.”




Falling in Love

with my neighborhood.  A much loved neighborhood, not hard to love, but hard for me to love, because I’ve been investing all my energy in wishing to be elsewhere.  Far.

Tonight I walked my dog in the temperate mist, hazy moonlight pressing through clouds. The streets were quiet but not dead.

The alleys are magical.


I was able to procure a well-made baguette at a shop where the clerks greeted me warmly by name, gave me a discount even, because my son worked there for a minute last fall.

The air on that block always smells amazing thanks to the bakery across the street.  Always cinnamon, always sweet.

Passing the firehouse, a small group approached from the opposite direction; two couples, two children.  I noticed the children first as they ran ahead laughing, twirling shirtless in leggings and rain boots.

Are you Abigail?  The younger of the men asked me.  I’m Andy Brown, he said.  Jingle Ball, Club de Ville and all that.

I remembered him immediately and even recognized his wife Sara(h?) who I’ve met exactly once, about 7-8 years ago.  Isn’t it weird what we keep?