I’m reading Anne’s journal these days. It’s research for the
memoir that I plan to write — that I am writing in some of these blog posts. Anne’s
brother has invited me to Alabama; he took all of Anne’s files there, back
home, after we cleaned out her house in Ellett Valley. I could piece together
much of what has dimmed in my memory with those files. It’s been eleven years, five
months and twenty-six days since Anne died, and trust me, much has dimmed.
Until very recently, something held me back from going there
— physically and metaphorically. And I don’t just mean going to Alabama to further
dig through years of file folders of receipts, letters, contracts, syllabi,
Christmas lists (not wish lists, but lists of gifts to buy), unfinished
chapters, poems and the occasional nude picture of her ex-husband. I’ve held
back from delving too deeply into the memories of all those years spent in
Anne’s friendship — Anne’s universe. They were wonderful, crazy years, full of
drama and comedy, littered with absolute assholes from all walks of life, and
angels, saints. Until very recently, it’s been too painful to contemplate.
Blogging, for some reason, has emboldened me.
The journal entries I have date back an additional dozen
years, beginning in July 1988, one year before Anne and I met. They have
provided an illuminating jaunt down memory lane. Reading names I haven’t heard
or thought about in years has conjured faces I haven’t seen in just as long. I
have a few of Anne’s photos from this time period, and I think now, I can put
names to some of the people in them. I should have done this years ago, writing
all this down. I should have at least scratched out a timeline of the
highlights and milestones. I’m amazed I had the foresight to copy the journal
entries from Anne’s computer to my own. (Anne’s computer skills! Must save those
stories for a separate blog post.)
Before I began reading the journal, I could not recall the
sound of Anne’s voice, but it rings clearly in my ears now. The pitch is
moderate – you’d expect the tone to be higher in a woman so petite. It has the
smooth silky accent of central Alabama and privilege. But the words – the
incomparable sass – “I need…” in that slow drawl accompanied always with a sly
smile and bat of eyelashes. The pronunciation of shrimp without the “h,” like
Sri Lanka. The way “bitch” had two syllables and was always spoken with that
same sly smile.
It’s nice to hear her voice again, even if it is still fretting,
after all these years, about men (I want
to feel close to R. But I cannot support him. Let's see if he really makes it
to the job...), money (What the fuck
is this Control thing to [Daddy]? Sure, it's money but it's more than that.),
music (Music SAVED ME!!!) and career, her unfulfilled quest to attain the status of Full Professor. (Anne retired a
tenured Associate Professor. After her funeral, at the wake, I bought many drinks
for the former department head, who had been instrumental in denying Anne’s
promotion, and asked him why? He admitted, giggling while his wife looked on annoyed, that it was because they
didn’t like her Alabama accent...or her trust fund.... “She didn’t need the money.” I nearly committed
murder that day. Karma has its way though...I saw him recently at a local
restaurant eating alone.)
Anne’s journal entries take the form mostly of letters, some
sent, most not. She wrote to her shrink (her
standard word choice), her family, her lovers or to herself. The tone is often
self-abasing but always conversational. Reading them, I realize that Anne held almost
nothing back from me in all the hours and hours (years and years) of
conversations we had while sitting in her bedroom, she at the head, and I at
the foot of the brass bed that she bought, “because of the Dylan song.” Entry
topics “fox-loop” between the things that worried Anne and the things that kept
her sane. As I read them now, the voices of ghosts surround me.
Not just Anne’s voice — Michael’s there too, and Theresa,
Dutton and Charlotte, Paul, Jesse, Anne’s Daddy. These people, family and
friends, mentors, idols, informed Anne’s life. They grounded her, amused her,
loved her, abused her. They are all ghosts now too: Michael, Theresa and Jesse
by their own hands, Charlotte and Paul from illness; Dutton died naturally
after a life well lived. A stroke brought Anne’s Daddy down from his terrifying,
controlling status to one of drooling and vacant stares that would last several
years. Karma has its way.
I’m mentioned twice. The first reference in 1990 is brief, Meeting with Kim and C. today about the
video. I don’t recall the meeting. The video, “Just Like a Church But
Completely Different”, was a
documentary about the Blacksburg music scene during the late 1980’s and early
1990’s. There actually was a music scene in Blacksburg in those days, a pretty
good one, and not just cover bands. In addition to teaching college English,
Anne also ran a business called The Spool Company, which booked musical talent
into local venues (that was the plan anyway – the business had limited success).
Anne produced the video as a means to further promote the Blacksburg music
scene and even managed to get a showing of the video at a couple of film
festivals in Virginia (where it got honorable mention) and Toronto, Ontario.
My second mention, in 1994, occurs in a letter to her
mother. I did not realize that she sent her mother a copy of the Fiber Optic Reference Guide, by David R.
Goff, which I edited, but I’m flattered to know it now. Anne’s mother is a very
sweet woman who showed me much kindness in many of the same ways her daughter
did…so generous, so genteel.
I’m not surprised at my scant appearances in her journal. It
affirms that I did not cause strife for Anne the way so many others in her
orbit did. Anne routinely created very complex relationships with people who
were...how to put this? Let’s just say they may have been more motivated by
self-interest than any true affection for Anne. She was ridiculously generous
by nature, driven in part by an intense fear of loneliness. She never failed to
pick up the check at a restaurant or bar. I managed to beat her to it maybe
twice in the 100’s of meals we shared together, and she got really angry with
me both times.
Many, many “friends” of hers never bothered to try to get
the tab, which, in a total contradiction, also annoyed Anne; variations on, Went to dinner with ____, I paid, show
up frequently in the journal. Anne was a study in contradictions, but that made
the friendship fun for me; I’ve always been drawn to zaniness. The woman evoked
my full range of emotions over the years, but she never bored me. Never.
I still can’t say where the memoir goes from here. Much is
missing from the journal that I had hoped to find. Depression gave Anne
writer’s block; trips to the “nuthut” (her word) broke the continuity of the
entries; these periods are marked only by brief flashbacks: Life is overall easier [in
the hospital] than it is outside.
Except for sleeping. I like sleeping in my own bed. The periods I
know of where she felt very content are also missing from the journal, which
seems like another contradiction, but I think happiness also presented a form
of writer’s block for Anne. Contentment dulled the drive to keep a journal; it
seems only drama fueled her introspective muse.
At the same time, the periods where her journal is silent
were very productive commercial writing periods for Anne. During those years,
she wrote and edited two books of poetry along with the students of her
“Literature of Rock & Roll” course. She edited a Pulitzer Prize nominated collection of letters written by her mentor, Jesse Hill Ford, the southern
writer. She taught English at Virginia Tech full time during those years, was
involved with the Miss Virginia Pageant (that will be its own chapter – the
scandal!), performed in poetry slams and began plans to have a large addition
built onto her house. Who had time to keep a journal with all that going on?
Then Daddy finally died. A year later, Theresa overdosed and
Jesse shot himself, depressed from heart surgery medicine, Anne’s published
collection of his letters in his lap. Anne edited a third poetry book — poems
by and about Theresa, a gifted poet who studied English at Virginia Tech.
Anne’s friend and favorite musician, Paul, succumbed to hepatitis C the next
spring. Less than two years later, Anne was diagnosed with breast cancer. After
finishing her treatment, Anne put her writing energy into The Novel, an
autobiographical fiction that begins the year she and I met. She finished
writing three chapters of Fool’s Hill
before the breast cancer came back with a vengeance eighteen months later. All of
Anne’s writings end there.
But for me, the story percolates and gains momentum. I guess
the next steps include a trip to Alabama, to a little town called Oneonta where
Anne’s brother lives in Graystone, the house where they all grew up. Mother is
just across the street, in a newer, smaller, better appointed house, and Opal
comes around every day to help with cooking and cleaning and taking care of Mrs.
Cheney. Anne’s files are there, and the videos, more photos; her brother’s memories
will be valuable as well. He’s promised to set up an office for me – scanner,
computer, VCR (yes, VCR...these are actually videos on tape) whatever I need to take notes, recapture the
memories of what we tried to accomplish, all those years ago, with music and
writing. We failed and succeeded – the exquisite contradictions continue – the
outcome really didn’t matter though, only the dream.
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| Me sitting at the foot of Anne's brass bed, Summer Solstice 1996 |
#52Weeks
