Yesterday, quite by accident, I came across Liz Downey's obituary, someone who once was a friend of mine, and who was, for a time, very important to me. She died in November of 2012, and I had no idea. For about a year, beginning in 1988, she and I were very close. And then we weren't. I honestly cannot recall why. We probably last talked in late 1989. She was an addict, and I'm an addict, and we shared a love affair with Xanax. And vodka. And Billie Holiday. Liz was the second person, after my partner, to whom I came out – not counting all the shrinks. She was, in her way, very supportive. Indeed, she was the first person who ever encouraged me to transition. It's a very odd, detached sort of sadness I feel. I wish we'd not drifted apart. I hope she wasn't unhappy.
Yesterday was spent trying to figure out how to order the stories and poems that will make up Cambrian Tales: Juvenilia. Most of this material is undated, and I'm working from memories that are twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, and, in one case, almost forty years old. I had to email my mom yesterday so that she could try and help me date one story. I'm going to be done with this ms. by Monday, because it's not healthy for me to spend so much time with all these ancient memories. Truthfully, I'm having second thoughts about doing this book. Oh, I think people will like it, but I've had to drag myself back to times and places I'd meant never to revisit.
Last night, I had a bowl of black bean soup for dinner, with a little cheddar cheese and two pieces of buttered toast. And we watched the first episode of Season Ten of Face Off. We adore this show.