I didn’t take my eyes off Carrie until I had to. Empty wineglasses sat on the table, I watched her mouth as she took her final sip.
That night, Ian and I slept soundly. Sleeping in the same bed came without issue or awkwardness. The next day, we drove to a small community of people who had been formerly unhoused. Between donations from hardware stores and volunteer engagement, the space appeared to be thriving, with permaculture as one of the main focuses. Wood and supplies would be dropped off and used to build tiny homes. Food grew throughout, water catchment tanks stood tall, compost had its place. We were fortunate to be welcomed in, to have them share the evolution of the community with us, how the principles of permaculture were being utilized.
Ian inspired a new sense of poetry in me, instilling a strength to open the heart, grounding me in ways I didn’t know I needed. We discussed art and literature I was not yet familiar with. I wanted to devour information through books, and was always looking for recommendations, from Bill McKibben to David Suzuki to Naomi Klein. In grade twelve I thought I’d go to university and planned on applying to the University of Toronto. I had not been sure what I wanted to study though, my lack of clarity signified I should give it a beat. Cast in X-Men a few weeks later, my first job in well over a year, it ended up being the launchpad into working nonstop. I thoroughly enjoyed learning, well, if it was something I had an interest in, if not, I was stubborn. I wanted my ignorance to be revealed, for new perspectives to take the place of the dominant narratives I’d grown up with, rooted in bigotry and white supremacy. Since I did not attend school after graduating, I devoured books, almost always nonfiction. I didn’t want to stop growing and expanding, and I was terrified I would. I still strive to grow and remind myself to set my self-righteousness aside, there’s always more to learn.
At the end of our trip, we popped into a record store to get a CD for the ride home. They had those listening stations where you could preview new releases. I put on the hip, large headphones to listen to Emilíana Torrini’s “Fireheads” from Me and Armini.
Somebody’s got a long way to go.
You’re not sitting by the phone no more.
You’re gonna throw it away, crash it on a rock.
Yeah, so you can live your life.
Is how it begins.
We got in the white Ford and headed back south toward Eugene. Obsessed with that record, her voice, the sounds, trippy and uplifting, interwoven with depth and emotion, fusing beauty with heart-wrench. It became the score of our future trips together, the beginning of a long story. Our weekend adventure to Portland was an understanding and experimentation in how to follow our joint curiosities, how to be a team and creative partners. I think both of us were yearning for a sense of embodiment that we weren’t sure we’d ever feel. Though stuck in our individual shame storms, when together, so much more felt possible.
“Bleeder” was the song we listened to the most, the last on the album Me and Armini. Her voice washed over us while we curved through the enormous spruce and fir trees, and faded out as we pulled up to Lost Valley, the song coming to an end right before stopping the car. Taking a moment of stillness, reverence, the magic of it all. The intimacy that sharing music brings. I sensed reawakened imagination, a spark. I felt hope.
Meanwhile, communication between Paula and me was falling apart. My fault mostly, I’d stopped calling as much. I blamed it on reception, which was only partially true. Angry, but not sure why, it manifested as passive-aggressive. I felt unburdened by this sense of personal freedom. This was the best that existing had felt in a long, long time. Selfishly, I cared more about my present adventure and new friendship than about taking care of my relationship.
One of my most cherished memories from Lost Valley is a simple one: making sauerkraut. Chopping and chopping a countless number of recently harvested green cabbages with a group of earnest and wholehearted people whose journeys had twisted and turned with pain and joy, trauma and healing, all leading to the now where we found ourselves.
We put the sliced and diced cabbage into large buckets. After adding salt, we began to pound with our fists, over and over and over, pulverizing the diced cabbage, making the liquid separate. Listening to music, connecting, we were making food that would last for months at least. Can it, and it’ll last for years. When the moisture rose, hovering just above the top of the cabbage, I took a plate, placing it on the surface, it fit like a glove. I added a rock on top to weigh it down. Store it away, let it ferment for a couple weeks, and there you go: sauerkraut. What a sublime way to spend time with people. Purposeful and nourishing.
At the end of the permaculture course they had a little graduation party with a talent show. Ian was voted the MC, which fit his gregarious personality perfectly. He decided to host the evening in drag as Courtney Love and encouraged everyone to join in on the drag theme, and most did. We dug through a chest of costumes, overflowing with dresses and long shirts and a cluster of wigs. Ian covered his long red locks with a frazzled blond wig and wore a white slip that stopped above his knees. I loved watching him, it was sexy and embodied. I dressed up as Kurt Cobain, which I did not need to borrow a costume for, I already wore ripped jeans and white T-shirts and large flannels.
He led the show magnificently, never skipping a beat. The charisma, the sass, we laughed and people shared, vulnerable but willing. Beer and tequila and wine made their way about as people sang songs and read poetry. I played a tune I had written on the guitar, simple but sincere. The tenderness that was in that room was nameless, a bonding with strangers that went beyond amicability. It felt magical.
The next morning, plenty of us haggard from the booze, we stood outside in a circle. We held hands while everyone took a turn to reflect on their time there, to say their goodbyes. I felt calm at first, peaceful and grateful, but then an insatiable amount of sadness consumed my body. I began weeping, snot dripping down my face and chin. I kept wiping it away with my windbreaker. My time at Lost Valley, that was the closest I had felt to me in a long time, where I felt present with anything at all. Don’t get me wrong, wherever you are, the mind follows, my brain still taunted me, but fuck, it was a hell of a lot quieter.
Here I found myself again, creeping closer. I felt a new sense of strength, I learned and allowed myself to express my pain a smidgen more. But this was hard to hold on to outside of Lost Valley, no longer in the woods without a mirror, but back in Los Angeles with its relentless traffic and sprawling lawns.
At the party, Ian and I finished with a duet. Sitting in a foldout chair, I picked up the guitar and settled it in my lap. The candlelight lit everyone’s faces, illuminating kind and encouraging eyes. I looked to Ian and he looked back, our nerves peeking through. I smiled and he smiled, too, as if to say, I got you. We played “Doll Parts.” There was video of it at some point, but we have never been able to recover it. How much better, though, it lives in our shared memories, those moments that started it all.
14
U-HAUL
The first time I tried to speak to my mom about sexuality, it didn’t go very well. I was fifteen and coming to terms with how attracted I was to women, only letting myself think of them when I was alone.
Searching online: Am I gay?
How do I know if I am gay?
There was no need to avert my eyes from my male peers. They did not titillate me. My nerves hummed around certain girls, I’d have to avoid them. It must be so obvious, I’d worry.
I was in the passenger seat, head down, mustering up my strength. I turned to my mother. Her eyes were on the road. Her silver earrings dangled, not quite reaching her jawline, swaying with the car’s movement.
“Mom, I think I may be gay—”
“That doesn’t exist!” she yelled before I’d completed the word.
My body sank in the passenger seat, the air sucked from me. I hung my head. She looked forward again and neither of us said another word about it.
As I aged, it became clearer that I wasn’t going to be a pretty straight girl. The pressure from my mother to alter my appearance began to increase, alongside the bullying at school. I tried. My mom’s joy and relief faded to disappointment as I began to return to my original state.
She did not want me hanging out exclusively with boys anymore.