So much of any year is flammable. Where does it go? A slide show of images out of time and in no particular order.
Living with Brian and Carolyn on College Avenue. Going to CCAC. Eating ramen every day. The night I met Mark, 24 years ago at the East Bay Express party. Learning to write under Chiori Santiago. Driving through San Francisco delivering copies of Metier, our art magazine. Drinking. Vomiting. Doing lines of coke. Going home with strangers. Black patent leather flats. The Christmas I went to San Miguel De Allende with my family, how my sister and I got drunk and gave all of our jewelry away to the men at the bar. My brother’s outstretched hand to collect the rings at the end of the night. The Chrysler sales man car I drove for nearly 4 years when I sold books for Simon and Schuster, not being able to get on the 7am flight from Oahu to Kona to sell to the bookstore in Kailua because I was spinning and hung over.
The summer I sang in a band on Martha’s Vineyard and took a taxi ride with James Taylor. All the fights in the car with my Mother on the way back to college, my Father dying, making books, seeing my byline, being on the radio, my in-laws horrified because they didn’t like the article on pinching, thought it made my father-in-law look bad, grabbed every copy of Glamour from their retirement community store and drove them to a trash bin in another town. Taking my husband’s name, marriage counseling, losing rings, too many to count, Zoe getting sick, counting out prednisone, the Canyonlands, Moab, Zion, Joshua Tree, the colors blue and green.