The Chronology of Water (30 page)

So when the Olympic Boycott happened, it proved what I already suspected was true. Reality could disappear in an instant - a man could take it from you forever.

I think the beginning of my deepest acts of self destruction often have something in common - a question that comes up in different forms over the course of a life-when the thing you are living for dies right in front of you, why go on? It’s a sadness that enters us all, just differently I suppose. But that Olympic boycott was one of my earliest moments of consciousness with regard to the mutability of reality in the world. Something called “politics” could steal your personal life. Just like something called “father” could. And I’d already grown up through the Nixon years and survived early Catholic upbringing … so even children understood to be cynical.

On the hopeful side though, swimming, books, art, and love -those worlds are still most real to me. In the best sense of that puny word.

 

 

Over the years I have become very disappointed in the idea that there can be only one, monolithic narrative about alcoholism or addiction. What I mean is, we’ve come to a time in both capitalism and literary history where unless you tell the
right
story about drug and alcohol dependency, you don’t get to tell it at all. And that one, right story is most often dictated by the market - by agents and editors and publishers and media.

What a consumer audience needs the story to be.

If you write outside of those lines, you will more often than not be coached back into the center.

I think of the writers and painters and musicians who have inspired me to not kill myself and keep going. Most of them did drugs and alcohol. All of them, really.

I never say in this book what happened to the woman I hit head on with my car. I have deferred that information purposefully. Because I want you to stay with me - me drunk driving across eight lanes of freeway traffic at midnight in my car - stay with me inside my own pain and grief and vodka breath and pee and barf-stay with me as the gunpowder smell from the airbags fills the car.

Sometimes we’re just sad. And wrong-headed. And drunk. That’s all.

There are so many stories to tell about what we do to our bodies.

There is a history to the mythos about addiction in the country-we’ve always burned witches - but I think the potent turning point was probably the establishment and codification of A.A. in this country. And the subsequent nationalized embrace of the general principles of the A .M. A. and the A .P.A. and the bible of the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders -
how each of these defines illness and cures. Not to mention religion’s role in the false narrative of redemption. Now a whole industrial complex exists to serve the addiction narrative, along with a handy pharmaceutical empire.

My mother was an alcoholic. But I never think of her that way. I think she was in pain most of her life. I think she was just trying to drown a sadness that wouldn’t lift. I think if I had been her I would have killed myself like she tried to. I wish I had come conscious sooner. Maybe we could have talked about it. What drinking is. What it isn’t.

The other thing I’d say is that if we didn’t have drugs and alcohol, we wouldn’t have art. I know that is not a popular thing to say but I believe it is true nonetheless. Our drug and alcohol excesses kill people. Yes. But they also are part of who we are as
artists. Part of why cultural production exists. Whether we want to admit it or not.

 

 

You know Marguerite Duras once said “in childhood and the lives that follow, the mother represents madness. Our mothers remain the craziest people we’ve ever met.”

My mother remains the craziest person I ever met. But I mean something quite complex when I say that, maybe even profound. Up until the death of my daughter I would say that I maintained an antagonistic stance with my mother. I fought with her-I chose to fight with her-to find my own edges. She let me. She fought back. I brought my rage and pain right up to the surface of her puffy with drink skin. She let me. Maybe she even drew it out of me. Though we never laid a hand on each other.

We raged by and through one another. Not the rage of the father or symbolic father. The rage of women let loose, uncontained, when no one but us was in the house. I remember how her blue eyes went to the color of steel. I remember admiring it.

How she let me down of course is that she never took my sister and me out of that house, away from our father. She didn’t save us.

How she was there for me though was that she took me. She didn’t flinch. She took the full force of my adolescence and young adulthood and all the hatred and rage I had stored up and she didn’t move a muscle. I yelled. She yelled back. It’s a
survival skill. A skewed one, to be sure, but one that carries an unusual strength. Sometimes I think our fighting bore me.

The last time she tried to “spank” me I was 10. She broke several blood vessels in her hand. I already had a muscled up swimmer’s butt. I just stared at her after she hit me as hard as she could on the ass. I think she knew in that moment what would rise between us. All the rage we carried to survive my father. Everything it would take to enter “woman” in this still dumb world.

When my daughter died I broke. Open. Into stories. For the first time in my life, I wanted to know what my mother’s story was. Badly. So I asked her. When I explored what my mother’s story had been all I felt was compassion for the girl of her. Someone should have done something to save her. No one did. It’s a wonder she was alive at all.

Maybe forgiveness is just that. The ability to admit someone else’s story. To give it to them. To let it be enunciated in your presence. It’s your job not to flinch.

 

 

Another narrative that’s supersaturated the literary landscape at this point in time is the incest narrative. Someone in my writing group actually called it “cliché”… Though when she said it I went into the bathroom and cried, I know what she meant. She meant that the incest narrative has been marketed and disseminated to such an extent that it’s running out of meaning.

That sounds so horrible to say but talk to an editor or agent or publisher and you will hear rhetoric about the incest narrative and how to sell it or what will prohibit your book from selling.

As if that’s what matters.

So like the drug and alcohol monolithic narrative, there are so many stories of incest out there yet to be told. But if you don’t tell the
right
incest narrative, you got butkus. My goal in offering my own story isn’t to claim that abuse suffered from my father is any more important than anyone else’s. Nor is it to “claim” the incest narrative to sell books.

My goal is to put the reader into the space of childhood and young adulthood where fear and confusion and rage get born - like they do in us all for different reasons. To put the reader in their body through language. Because when I teach or give readings or workshops, I meet a hundred people who know what it feels like to be shamed, or beaten, or molested, or just made small. We all move through the waters. Language helps us feel less separate.

When my mother died my father was stuck in Florida. Alone. With not much of his wits left. With major heart damage. With a lien on his house. Andy and I visited some nursing homes in Florida. I threw up. They were simply awful. Whoever I am, I could not leave him there. I couldn’t leave Hitler there. It simply wasn’t possible for me to purposefully kill him or torture him or neglect his body. Ironic.

I don’t believe in god. I don’t particularly believe in the cult of sin and redemption. But I do believe in energy. What I hold my father most responsible for is for not facing his own darkness - not acknowledging it as his. I think that is a flaw a great many of us struggle with. Like in
The Tempest
when Prospero says about Caliban, “This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.” We all have to claim that which we have created. For me it’s a detachment that I have to watch out for every day of my life - else I become untethered from the ones I love, even from life. My father never acknowledged his capacity for cruelty. His uncontainable
anger. His misplaced desires. Maybe I learned to forgive him from the language and poetics of Shakespeare.

But forgiveness isn’t the best I have to give him. Even as a dead man, the best I have to give him is an acknowledgement that I came from him. And I did not kill myself. I am living beyond his life, his end and pulse. I am trying to put things into the world that alchemize the dark and turn it to something beautiful and smooth you can carry in your hand. A small mighty blue stone.

I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t fucked up in their life a time or two. Royally. I’m pretty sure that’s what keeps us connected to one another. Not so much the superhuman savior stories. It’s called being human. It’s the energy and matter. Words let us say that.

Language! What a thunderous mercy, huh?

 

Sexuality in
The Chronology of Water
is a multilayered, multidimensional aspect of your emotional life. From the beginning you had an attraction to both sexes and later as an young adult your sexuality became both a source of power and an expression of grief. It seems that as you discovered your writing talent and continued your education, finishing with a Ph.D. in English Literature, your sexuality also underwent transition. Was this your experience? And, while your sexual life may have been considered unconventional by some, you choice to marry men and ultimately become a family with Andy and Miles is more in line with society at large. How have you incorporated all these aspects into your adult life?

 

My sexuality is still very much in flux. But I would say that about us all. The limits we put on our own sexual development and exploration are partly cultural scripts and partly our own hopes and fears playing out skin stories. In other words, sexuality is always undergoing transition - just like our bodies and minds and souls and energies - always in flux.

So to be married
might
mean for some people that they shut down their sexual journey, or that they follow a wife/mother
storyline, but I remain interested in explorations in between those things, at the edges, or beyond the regular orbits.

I do still think that culturally speaking there is a very narrow bandwidth available for women in terms of sexual development. Wife, mother, lover, other. Men too, of course, but I have lived the limits more in terms of women and girls. But if psycho-sexual development and corporeal development is lifelong, then I consider it part of my job in life to journey right up until the last. Even if I’m a dried up old raisin. Because I think bodies are about the coolest thing in … ever. Your body. Mine. All the different kinds. What a glory bodies are. I hope to write a book about bodies in the near future.

 

 

Survival. Pure and simple. I discovered early on that mobility for a woman in this culture is crucial. The ability to live and work on your own if you have to is vital. The ability to pursue the life of the mind is vital. The ability to journey the body’s full story is vital. Volition. If you can find that in yourself you are going to be okay.

I have a picture of myself running away from home for the first time. I’m three. I have a small plastic suitcase and a big scary looking doll. My cat “spice” is in the foreground, probably wondering where I’m going. My sister is in the background, nearly out of the frame, in the most glorious red dress.

I went to the edge of the yard and sat on the curb for about 30 minutes.

The house is near Stinson Beach near San Francisco, where I was born. The yard was filled with fruit trees. The house was filled with anger. My sister and I were terrified most of our childhoods. My father bred fear into the bodies of his daughters.

And yet, in that moment of the picture, taken by my mother who no doubt thought it looked cute, like mothers do, I knew what to do. Volition.

There is art in that.

I believe in art the way other people believe in god. I say that because books and paintings and music and photography gave me an alternate world to inhabit when the one I was born into was a dead zone. I say it because if you, even inside whatever terror itches your skin, pick up a pen or a paintbrush, a camera or clay or a guitar, you already have what you are afraid to choose. Volition. It was already in you.