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I'm back home! Well, I've been back home for nearly two days now, but I got pretty sick on Monday afternoon, so I've been spending my time at home still recovering from it, procuring antibiotics from my doctor via phone and fax to deal with the infection that occurred because of being sick, as well as spending some crucial time lounging with dommeyourass who I'm not really going to see again for 9 days.

The residency met half of my expectations and exceeded the rest. Truly. And it probably would have exceeded the former expectations about how much work I would complete, if I hadn't lost 2 full days to illness. (And maybe a morning or two to hangover, ahem.) In the end, I came home with nearly 3/4 of a second draft of my novel complete, and a renewed vigor in the novel itself and my ability to finish it. (August 31st I am sending it out to readers. For real.) But also, despite physically languishing, I feel emotionally and spiritually renewed by the experience, of being in a bubble where I carried no keys, no wallet, no phone, where my dominant role was as artist and creator, where people assumed the best of me and in turn I often acted the best version of myself. I had a bad day or two, I had my moments, but my overall anxiety and preoccupations were distant memories. This is what I'm trying to cultivate in small doses and bring back with me. In some ways, being sick is helping me do that -- I'm being very slow and intentional in my reintegration to everyday life, I'm stitching all the best parts of each bubble together. I didn't fully realize how much periods like this are integral to my work, and I basically don't want a year to go by without me knowing I will be attending some residency, somewhere. Ragdale again, for sure, others across the country and world, or at the very, very least ones of my own creation, but really, there are so many existing ones out there, so many possibilities, its ridiculous for me to even box myself into thinking I can't get into others if I just take the time to apply.

And I also came home from the residency with 11 new spouses. Our group bonded very intensely, and I loved that when I came down the stairs, or walked across the courtyard, when I heard voices in the kitchen or dining room, it didn't matter whose they were -- I knew I would sit down and have a great conversation and laugh and learn something new. And when we would turn to each other at dinner and say "how was your day?" it had a whole new meaning and understanding. This is my first residency/artist colony experience, and I know this is somewhat of an anomaly (normally it would happen with a handful of the group, not everyone so cohesively). I didn't expect it to happen, no one did, it was just the alchemy of us we couldn't control. I'm grateful to know that this experience of finding creative kindred spirits didn't stop at grad school. And I look forward to those visits in the next months, years, decades, where I know we will reconnect and break open a bottle of hungarian apricot brandy and dance and laugh even more.

I intended to write more concrete stories, like conquering the most nauseating carnival rides, or adventures in north shore shopping, or bird-watching, or midnight trespassing swims, or taking the whole fleet of beloved ragtag bicycles through the mansion streets to the beach where the new Kennedys played touch football in the sand, or viewing lightning storms under the safe canopy of a screened in porch and a circle of friends and a bottle of Jameson's. Maybe I just did. Longer versions aren't guaranteed to do it justice anyway. I'm probably too dewy-eyed and misty anyway.

Now I must go to the grocery store, because I suspect in the whole time I was gone, that didn't happen.

On June 14th, 2007, sometime in the afternoon, Granny died. At 9:15 pm that evening, my father called to tell me. I got off the train a stop early so I could call him back and we chatted for close to fifteen minutes. He told me she’d been in hospice care, they knew it would happen soon, it was only a matter of time, and that she died of a respiratory failure. Even while typing that word, I had a time spelling it, I kept hearing how he said it, with his relatively thick southern accent: “RES-patory”.
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It's 8:00 am and I'm trying not to burn my toast this time (the toaster died and I'm using the broiler and I'm out of the habit so I tend to forget and leave it to long) and listening to "Raybear V.1" which came in the mail from sharkysmachine. I am hungry and tired. Last night I was at Trader Joe's and I normally eshew the mandatory chit-chat with the coporate-encouraged extra friendly cashier, but it seemed so soothing, I couldn't help myself. I think because he said "how has your week been?" and I paused an inordinately long time at the question because I was confused as to why he was talking like it was the end of the week. Then I remembered, oh, it's Friday. I'm still thrown off by Thursday, where I woke up in Long Island and drove through NYC and New Jersey, and all of Pennsylvania, which is an exceedingly long state. I saw possibly the most beautiful sunset of my life driving through the mountains on the western side (Poconos?), then on through Ohio and Indiana and I almost didn't make it, but right around Gary, the ipod cut out and we switched to radio and it was a Chicago hip hop station's Throwback Thursday" and they played Mobb Deep's "It's Mine", and seriously, it saved my day, and possible our lives in the car, since I was driving. I also channeled thebrownhornet in that moment which aided me.

Christmas was good. Ate impossible amounts of food. Played lots of games. Everyone enjoyed my homemade candy. No tense or awkward moments. Slept late, read, took a walk. Felt grateful for in-laws and the person who brought me to them.

On the drive home, during a moment of exhausted compulsion in trying to stay awake and motivated, DYA called the home phone to check messages and my dad called. We got home and he'd also sent a card and gift, i.e. a check to buy a shirt, underwear and socks (as the card semi-instructed). It's hard to describe the voicemail. While listening, I was fixated most on how he sounded, it had been so long since I heard his voice, yet it was so utterly familiar, like a song the radio that you haven't heard in 8 years but you can sing every word. The other part that pleased me was his mention that he knew I was out of town for for the weekend. I was impressed he remembered my e-mail from last month telling him that, since paying attention is something obviously lack in our relationship. DYA pointed out that he called me Ray and he said he loved me. I said the love part wasn't the problem. They've never said they didn't love me. In fact the often say it, though it's always immediately followed by a "but", whether literally or just through the actions of their inaction. But the name thing, I'll take that. Steps forward, steps back. It's a slow game. I will call him later.

But not today! Today I am preparing for tonight where I will taste six different wines and rum punch and eat cheese and stuffed mushrooms and bacon-wrapped dates.