July 22
Actually, it's not an elevator here in my old hometown. It's called a lift. But if you give someone a ride in your car, that's also called a lift, and the British often talk of lifting our spirits, as in 'oooh, your visit did lift my spirits, dear' so I'm lost in the language of lifts, but for the sake of this blog it's an elevator. Which is good because the 'lift' in our building in Covent Garden was built by a company called 'Schindler' so you understand why I would rather call it an elevator...now where was I? Oh yeah, why do some men piss in elevators? Enough said. Especially as I was holding an open bag of mini papadums from Marks and Spencer in my hand and had to pretend I couldn't smell or see the offending river of pee as the elevator lurched up the five floors to my flat on the top floor. I had to throw the snack away. It's ok, I had bought two bags but I might have to wait a day before eating the other bag.
Shopping for food at Marks and Spencer's just got even better because they put in self serve checkouts (which is good for me because I have a bit of a thing about strangers looking at my food choices while it is cruising down the conveyer belt). So I loaded my clotted cream, lamb caserole, bread pudding, sausage rolls, teacakes and fruit fools into a plastic bag and the machine asked -on the honour system- how many I had used and charged me an extra 5 pence and I happily walked along the rain glistened cobblestones down Neal Street, slowed down as I went by my favorite store (beside the Apple store) the Doc Martens shop, and past Food For Thought, one of London's oldest vegetarian restaurants where I have been eating since they opened in 1977 (when I first moved into the area and was painting my flat, crossing the street for a steaming bowl of rice and vegetables and their daily fruit crumble was my beloved routine). Around the corner onto Shorts Gardens and into the comfort zone - aside from the elevator - of the block of flats I have called my London home for over 25 years.
July 23
I had dinner with one of my oldest and best friends - Sue O' Sullivan, who I seduced just as she turned 40 and I was a cocky 27. I remember thinking, in awe, that she was the first 'grown up' I had ever been involved with. Her friends warned her about me, but she didn't listen. I mean, who listens to friends telling you you're going to get your heart broken? We had a typical lesbian breaking up - it lasted longer than the relationship. Sue insisted on writing epic analyses of the relationship, wringing out every ounce of emotion, re-constructing and de-constructing every word ever said as if we were communist chinese communards plotting the fall of capitalism. In one of her missives she wrote 'Jill is a woman of immense charm but little depth' and went on to decry my penchant for juggling multiple relationships at one time, as if I were happiest with a constellation of support around me. 'How many does she want. At one time?' Sue squealed in anger and dismay. We ate with mutual friends Jean (who has been raising money for the British Lung Foundation with amazing cross country bike rides which she documents) and Rita, who reminded me to tell someone we both know in the Bay Area, that, in spite of all early appearances they are still together - after 22 years.
I came home on the 73 bus and took the stairs the five floors to my flat.
July 24
But that was yesterday. I am, it should be said, in a strange state of mind this evening. It is my birthday and attention, affection and love have been coming my way all day - from my family, my friends around the world, semi-strangers, and people I have not seen for many years. Sharon took me out for lunch and this evening I spent a delightful few hours on the South Bank with old friend Lulu Belliveau who worked with Susie Bright and I at On Our Backs and who has lived in my hometown while I have lived in hers for almost 20 years.
I have not written about my reason for being here. I feel as if I will betray her to write about her. But I know she would not see it that way. I wanted more than anything to climb onto the bed with her and fold her in blankets and hold her as close as I could without hurting her now miniscule frame. I did hug her when I arrived and she breathed me in. I apologised for being sweaty on a muggy London afternoon, and she made a small sound of appreciation. I, who rarely hug, could've stayed leaning over her bed and holding her until my knees ached. When Bern hugged her I heard her say 'you smell good' and found myself making a joke about her preference for a girl with scent. She giggled. She is, and has been a surprising presence in my life and in my consciousness. For 30 years. She says we met at a Tom Robinson concert and I won't argue with her memory. It seems fitting that as Tom's searing gay anthem 'Glad To be Gay' was piercing our collective consciousness Berta was gently manouvering into mine. We were short term lovers, political combatants, artists (she a poet and fiction writer) and she and I shared a dislike for the proscriptive feminists who condemned her for her continuing friendships with the men in her life and me - well me for virtually everything I did and said. Berta had, bar none, the softest lips I have ever kissed. She has a sharp mind and a sharper tongue, she can be cruel and compassionate and I know so very little about her real life over these years I have been away - yet whenever I arrived in London, the phone call to make a date with her was just after Roy and Sue at the top of the list.
She has a cat, a large cat called Bluebell, who comforts her now. And a caretaker and a pack of friends with Berta at their center who tend to her and will guide her. Bern and I had talked with her yesterday and begun to plan a day trip on Sunday, one of Berta's wishlist 'things to do', a trip on a riverboat down the Thames from Westminster to Greenwich, where we would get off the boat and try to push Berta's wheelchair up the Hill to the Greenwich Observatory. It is a beautiful and spectacular part of London's south east portion. And it is where I was born. Berta grinned with anticipation of the day out.
But that was yesterday. The phone rang earlier today. Berta, whose body is ravaged with cancer and whose functionality has been wasted by Parkinson's had suffered a mild stroke during the night, further stealing this astonishing and beautiful woman's capacity to live. I am struck by the way in which I am grabbing at life, at all things which exude light and texture and shape and sound, smell, scent and taste. I am somehow both exalted by my exuberant and bold determination to make every experience count and exhausted by the sight and sound of my friend diminishing into darkness. Life seems, as it should, very precious to me, right now.
And walking the five flight of stairs instead of using the lift, seems quite life affirming.
"I am struck by the way in which I am grabbing at life, at all things which exude light and texture and shape and sound, smell, scent and taste. I am somehow both exalted by my exuberant and bold determination to make every experience count and exhausted by the sight and sound of my friend diminishing into darkness. Life seems, as it should, very precious to me, right now."
Jill, that's awesome and beautiful.
susie
Posted by: susie fought | July 25, 2009 at 07:54 AM
As with many things that I will never grow tired of concerning you, I will never tire of your words about your life which you so generously share with your family, friends, and semi-strangers (which I suppose is my rightful category).
I have read this post several times. It begs reverence and so I hesitate to write anything. It begs sage words which I do not have a gift for giving, so I hesitate again to write anything. It begs personal observations on the dichotomy of your current place you find yourself in. I like the word dichotomy and so I have been seduced to write something anyway.
As I began to read, other than it was so nice to hear your words from London, I prided myself that I already knew that a "lift" was an elevator. But as usual course, as you continued I found myself in amused mystery about what "mini papadums" are. Delighted that I have a mental image of you in your private checkout line buying things such as, clotted cream, teacakes and fruit fools. I suppose I could Google for decriptions however, I think it adds to my delight to not know what you are choosing to eat but knowing it must be good and comforting. Thats all I really need to know.
You have betrayed no one. You have given an ultimate gift to your dear friend. You have done so with solemnity, joy and thoughfulness. I wish all of you Godspeed Jill(ie)
Posted by: nina | July 25, 2009 at 08:24 AM