My world is morphing, undulating, squeezing through small places and squirming around corners. Nothing has come to pass that I believed in six months ago, nothing I wanted is even the same as what I want now. It’s amazing, the convictions that I’ve held, the wants and needs, and how easilly they slip through my fingers, forgotten.

I moved to California for the winter to write my book. Winter is over, my book is obsolete, and I’m looking for a place of my own in wine country.

But all that matters right now is my brother Sean and Jordana, and how abso-freaking wonderful they are, and how terrific this weekend will be, and how my minutes of self-absorbtion are far more easily controlled these days. I still have my moments, but I cannot wait for every single second of the next two days.

Yours in wonderland,

Michelle

Yesterday morning, my sister-in-law Melissa flew into La Guardia at 11 AM from Iowa City, Iowa. She was here for just under 24 hours, and she helped me peel eggs for the devileds I was making for Jordi’s bridal shower. Mom, Melissa and I drove to Long Island with a precarious plate of eggs and not nearly as much time as I’d like to have with two such amazing women.

Melissa was the first courageous soul to brave the Williams family. She was our babysitter, our friend, the infuser of nuttiness and humor into our lives, whose crazy curls float through most of my childhood memories. Even when I was only a few years old, I sensed that she was the lifeline that would keep my brother Kent- my eldest, most bizarre, funniest, strangest brother, largely because he was a teenager when I was a toddler- tied to the rest of us. My family was always on the verge of violently splintering- another thing I sensed very early- and Kent seemed ready to break free. He was the cool kid, the one with the guitars in his room and a book full of his poetry and drawings, and he didn’t seem to fit within the parameters of everyday life. He was, he is, extraordinary, and I thought it would drive him away. Melissa, to my young eyes, was his touchstone.

I have memories of their wedding. I believe it was 1980- I’m sure I’ll be corrected if I’m wrong- which made me 8 years old. I loved my ruffley outfit because it was roomy and I could still run and play even though it was a dress (yeech!). I have a vague recollection of the outside of the… church? Sean and I swinging on some bars that lined the walkway. And then I remember the reception, walking around on my own, getting probably my first taste of what it’s like to be near but not with the people you love.

That was 24 years ago. That’s insane. And what I am realizing is that now I’m an adult, on my own, with a full life and the world before me, I can actually change things, make choices, do something about the things that make me sad. What is making me sad right now is that I haven’t spent more time with my sister Melissa. It makes me sad that my sister Tessa wasn’t at the shower with my sisters Melissa and Jordana. It makes me sad that my stepmom Carole wasn’t at the shower with my sisters and my mom. For so long, for so incredibly long, it was just my mom and me. No complaints there- my mom sent me on the path of freedom, openheartedness, goodness, and movement. But now there are all of these other wonderful women that we can call family and I guess that is the call I would like to shout out. We can do this, we can be a family. We can all be together when Jordana has a shower, we can get together to fly Melissa out for a long weekend, we can all meet in Chicago or Puerto Rico or in one of our homes.

If my parents have reached a point, if I have reached a point where I go to see Ian’s and Tessa’s plays and I SIT BETWEEN MY MOM AND DAD and NO ONE EVEN MENTIONS IT then we can do anything. I’m so proud of my parents, so proud of them talking to one another, so proud to see Carole and my mom chatting about, I don’t know, wedding dresses and bone density. I’m so proud of my father for saving my mom and me seats at the show, and so fucking lucky that we’ve reached a point where I didn’t have to decide with whom to sit.

But, really, it’s the bare bones of a beginning and that is it. My dress for the wedding feels tight to me, so I’m freaking out about getting it altered, because I know if I feel fat at the wedding than that is will be my one and only focus. This wedding is not about me, so I have to get the dress altered or I will lost in my own misery. It’s not an option. I have to get it altered. I suppose that is what I’m asking. Can we not all alter ourselves, just a little, and god knows me included, so we feel able to be at each other’s service? Tessa, this past Christmas, knew how important it was for her to be represented at Christmas rather than be simply inundated by the Williams clan. That is a huge beginning. That was altering the situation so she could welcome us into her home (for the third? fourth? year in a row). I’m so proud and honored that Melissa flew here for less than a day, who altered her situation so she could be here for the shower even though she just finished nursing a dying friend. That is commitment, that is family, and it is inspiring. So incredibly inspiring.

What it comes down to, though, is that all of this alteration, all of this giving and caring and loving that I struggle to master is what comes naturally to Sean’s bride-to-be. I see Sean wanting to be a great man because of Jordana, and in my opinion, greatly succeeding, but what they may not know is that Jordana makes me want to be a better sister, daughter, and friend. Jordana’s reflex is to reach out, to lift up, to love. We are so lucky, so blessed, that this wonderful woman is joining our tribe. Hers is the love that inspired Shakespeare, the one that does not alter when it alteration finds. And I hope we all live lives that deserve her.

I had so many disparate experiences in the last day that I think perhaps I should go to bed. The Vonnegut quote (live in New York but leave before you get hard, live in No. California but leave before you get soft- a direct quote until I figure out how to link stuff) was mentioned today and I’m not sure if I miss the hard or long for the soft. I feel utterly in transit. Every moment today in the city was intensely beautiful but way too intense at the same time. It seems impossible that I would ever come back for good but impossible that I could stay away so long. All of it is ridiculous and my sister-in-law Melissa is making a rare and wonderful appearance tomorrow so I should STFU and go to bed.

G’night, ya’ll!

Today I learned of three terrible car accidents in Napa, California. Two involved deaths, and one involved my baker. My sweet baker, who is seemingly stalked by tragedy, but who luckily walked away from his car which, after the fact, was several feet shorter than it was supposed to be. He and another car got smashed by a huge truck that didn’t feel like waiting for him to make a turn. The other two drivers involved in the crash had to be removed by the Jaws of Life. It’s just overwhelming, what could have happened.

If he had left work three minutes later, or three minutes earlier, it would not have happened. If there had been a car in the incoming lane when he was smacked across the road, he could have been badly, badly hurt. “Ifs” mean exactly nothing, but ifs are the choices we didn’t make that sometimes swirl around my brain when huge things happen. If I hadn’t decided to move to Napa. If I hadn’t taken the class which led to the job which led to my meeting the baker which led to him calling to tell me he was in a horrible accident. Sometimes I daydream in alternate realities, or in this case, shudder, when I think of different outcomes, a changed ending.

One thing I know is that I’ve been making good choices lately. I’ve surrounded myself with great friends, positioned myself for sucess in a growing industry, I’ve not pressured myself to *do* whatever it is I think I *should* be doing, and I’m deepening family relationships that are very important to me. I’m also hanging out with a totally decent guy. But I’ve made that left turn, the one my baker was taking to go home, many times, and there is simply no choice in the matter when a truck decides to pulverize you from behind. It reminds me that all I can do is try to keep my side of the street clean, so to speak. It also reminds me to not be afraid, because fear does not influence whether or not that truck is barelling towards me. More than anything, it just sucks. And sucks for him to be on his own when such a horrible thing happens.

The other night, sitting by the fire having just gorged ourselves on japanese eggplant, fennel salad and tomatoes confit, my baker asked me what I had learned so far in our, uh, relation-friendship. This was not out of the blue; we’d been talking about hard stuff for a couple of hours. It’s a strange thing to turn to the man you are sort of seeing and admit, “Just about all of my relationships have been disatrous on some level” and “it’s a joke in my family, how badly I choose men”. These are not facts I share readily, but it was a night of finally being honest. My baker called me out on my defensiveness, my path to sabotage, my tendency to shut down. And he did it in the kindest, most generous way, the same way he does everything.

I didn’t entirely answer his question. It was all a little much. And it was in retrospect that I’ve realized what I’m learning, what I will hopefully continue to learn. I’m learning just how damaged I really am. Sean says that I never mourned, that I was never allowed nor allowed myself to take stock of what really happened to me, and to sit with it. I wrapped my arms around my grief for all of a week or so and then I charged forward because I found sorrow to be poor company. I knew he was right, but I didn’t know what it meant, really, until now. I’ve wondered and written about being single for so long- the true “why” of my singlehood- and now I realize that I am simply absolutely terrified. I feel healthy, strong, grounded, and good in my life right now, but I get all of that from myself and it’s a lot of work. But to expect any of it from another? To depend on it? In-fucking-conceivable.

Every day I expect the rug to be pulled from beneath my feet. Every day I expect that today he’ll suddenly change his mind. And it makes me keep him at an arm’s length, makes me only toe that rug. I deserve to be treated like this- of this I have no doubt. Clearly, I’ve deserved this my entire life. I do not have a self-esteem problem, do not doubt my worth, and certainly do not believe that I am lacking in what I have to give in return. I have three years, hell, much more than three years of bottled-up love to bestow on the prince whose kiss finally delivers me from my single life. But… do I dare care about this person? How do I control the doubt? He is different than any man I’ve met, but does that mean he’ll be completely different? Does that mean he will show up, follow through, be honest, careful, and thorough? Does that mean that he, unlike all the others, will not up and decide that I’m just too much to deal with?

I mean, these questions are ridiculous in the same way that I could fret about being hit by a bus tomorrow. (Although I’d really like NOT to be hit by a bus tomorrow.) But the thing I’m learning is that these questions are in me, that I’m not fully healed, that all this time, I’ve not been ready as I thought I was. I’ve been brilliant at compartmentalizing the company I’ve kept, and in that, I’ve been wise in the degree of care I’ve allowed myself to feel. But now, now there is this terrific young guy who I believe can help me trust again.

I’m in New York to hang out with Sean and Jordi before the wedding. I saw a bunch of friends tonight and had a perfect beer at the Beer Garden in Astoria. A couple of hours ago, my baker called to tell me that his day was really long, not because of all the work he had to do, but because I wasn’t there to say hello to him. He wants to take me to see wildflowers on Monday. I feel like he’s an angel who is here to reaquaint me with how good love is. Not deep, dark, heavy, mega-relationship love, just the simple love of time spent with someone I absolutely and totally respect. And that respect is the one thing that has been missing in all of my other relationships. I’ve never respected any of the men I’ve ever loved.

Well. It changes everything.

On my ride this morning, I saw four deer grazing in a meadow, six or seven jackrabbits, flocks and flocks of birds. I came down a small hill on the Silverado Trail and heard a “whupwhupwhupwhupwhup”, intensely fast and loud, and as I turned the bend I saw the fans were on to keep the vines from freezing. The fans are huge, powerful, rotating, and that stretch of road had the only warmth I felt all morning.

Why do so many men have to be so predictable? What is so goddamn frightening about a woman liking you back? Seriously, I would be thrilled if someone could answer that question.

I’m flying to Los Angeles tonight, and it will be the first time back since the day I moved. I have a lot of different feelings about it. I can’t wait to see Ian and Tess, but I sure wish they were somewhere else entirely.

So… I guess you could kind of sort of say, in a small way, that I’m kind of hanging out with someone.

I’ve not really written of it, or spoken of it, because, well, I haven’t had to. It’s strange, too, how I’m pretty sure we are not really seeing each other, or dating. I mean, god no. But… but, well, he’s incredible.

It’s the baker. The baker I’ve mentioned. I cannot do him justice on this blog, not really, you’d just have to be there when I call him and tell him I’m stopping by for a few minutes and he says, “You are? God, this is a great day” and he’s totally one hundred percent serious.

We were at dinner last night, where of course I had to mention to him that I might not be capable of any more than what is happening right now, blah blah yadda yadda but finally we got off of that and we started discussing gender issues. i suppose this is the time to remember that he is 24 years old. 24. I have often said that I would rather date men who were 44 than 24. But he is a glorious 24, so wide open to his emotions, so ebullient and passionate without a trace of fear. He says things that coming from someone else would be ridiculous, but from him they make sense. You’ve never met anyone more honest. Everything that comes from his mouth is inspired, truly- and not that it’s all poetry, lord no, but the things he says come from a place that cannot be mocked.

He’s worked hard all of his… very few… adult years, and is the most dedicated, passionate person I’ve met since I’ve been here. And he notices everything. Absolutely everything. A lock of my hair falls down and it alters his reality. Just when I think he might be running out of kindness, of sweetness, of deeply meaningful compliments, I realize he’s just warming up. So at dinner last night, we are talking about the differences between men and women in friendships. Which sent me on a tirade (that and two glasses of wine, now that I’m back to being a lightweight) and I jumped on my “it sucks that women are bred to be competitive and ugly with one another which means I don’t have many women friends” soapbox. And somewhere in there I was comfortable enough with him, this relative stranger, to talk about my own sexuality issues, how I have sometimes used certain attributes of my physicality to get what I’ve wanted in life, and how tragic that is, but that there is a generation with whom that stuff works. Also, that I walk up to a table at the best restaurant in New York and businessman #1 actually pats my bum while businessman #2 asks me to run along and find him someone who can talk to him about wine.

My baker fought me on it, saying that if my smile opened doors, my mind kept me in the room. And then he said, “I am not a beautiful man, but that is not going to stop me. I’m still going to make things happen. I’m still going to go somewhere.”

This was in the middle of a heated conversation, and the evening kept rolling right along. I mean, my baker looks like a baker. He looks like pastries are an option. He doesn’t exactly have most of his hair.

After dinner, we went and shot pool, which is clearly one of my favorite pastimes. We each won two games, with me sharking enough shots to rattle him just enough. He’s a great pool player. He aims for about three seconds and then figures it will go in or not.

Is he funny enough? Quick enough? Mature enough? My perfect match? No. None of these things. What he is, though, is the best man I’ve ever met. When he’s ten years older, if he can hang on to his purity, his goodness, and his terrific bank shot, he’s going to be brilliant. Right now, he’s an angel, an angel who cooks, and every day he gives me a leg up back towards my feelings of self-worth. Every day when I see him, I expect him to be less excited to see me, even if just incrementally. I expect his attentions to wander. I’m sad that this is my expectation. It says so much that I wasn’t even aware of. But every day he’s only better, kinder, more giving to me. And beside himself if I have 5 minutes to give him.

I don’t want to get used to this, and I will not mislead him. But right now it’s so lovely. And eventually I’m going to have to tell him he was wrong last night. He’s the most beautiful man I’ve met.

A few weeks ago, my crew and I saw the Italian Saxophone quartet. Just two days ago, I finally got the CD that Marco, the sweet alto sax player, left for me. Inside the cover was a short note. “Alla bellissimo Michelle”, it read. Such sweetness. Just now, here at work, I had a visitor to my lonely office. It was the baker in his chef whites, a guy who I’ve hung out with a couple of times this past week. He came to say hello, gave me a quick hug, and I turned back to my computer to work. I looked down and saw that my shirt was covered with flour. Sometimes, it’s the little things that threaten to break my heart.

I’ve been wondering if I’m ready to date. I know I’ve been saying that I’ve been single for three years, but it’s been much longer than that. My ex and I were broken up a couple times during our years together, and it’s a well-documented fact that most of the time we were together, I was still alone. Singlehood defines me. I really know nothing else other than random dating and short time spent.

Marco, the sax player, was one of the kindest, funniest, most gentlemanly men I’ve met in years. I only spent a couple of hours with him, at a wine bar with 100 other people, and nothing but a chaste kiss goodnight, but he reminds me that there are good ones out there (that hopefully don’t live in Italy). My baker is adorable- sweet, silly, passionate, filled with wonder and conviction. He’s also 24 years old. Distance can be measured in a number of ways, and 24 is almost as far away as Italy. Also, when you are 24, your heart is much more delicate, infinitely more capable of loving and breaking, and I do not want to hurt this good man. As my mom always told us, a touch is also a promise, and I’m not sure I can casually date this man because he’s already nuts about me.

And date at all? It seems so funny and weird. What constitutes a “date”? What is the difference between hanging out and dating, dating and “boyfriend”, boyfriend and lover? I’ve never inhabited the dating world. It’s never interested me. Friends become lovers and boyfriends. That is how it’s worked. And I’ve always dated men older than me, without exception.

So I’ve never been much of a “dater”, and I’ve always fallen in love with older men. I’ve also chosen rather badly and had a largely crummy love life. Hmm. Maybe it’s time to follow my brother Kent’s advice and do this wrong differently. Maybe it’s time to start dating, and maybe I need not be so arbitrary in my choices. Maybe it’s time.

My crew went on a hike today. At least, that was the plan. Last night we invited an outsider to join us and she declined, saying she had plans for her morning. Today I found out that her plans were to sit in her garden and read. God, I thought, what a perfect plan.

We had a great day, however. After breakfast in Calistoga, and a couple of hours climbing the mountains in our cars, we found a trailhead leading into a redwood forest. We followed the trail for as long as we could, and then starting hiking up a trickling waterfall. I was leading, following nothing more than a faint deer path, when Matthew took over and led us up and over the mountain. It was such great fun. We slid down steep rocky slopes, swung from the small trees to keep from completely losing purchase, and satisfactorily scratched up our legs and arms. I love the air of the forest. But it also always makes me sad.

We drove another hour to the coast and ate fried everything in a pub in Mendocino. There was a basketball game on and everyone there was rooting for “anyone but Dook”. The marine layer was thick, and the wind cold, but it made the beer taste even better.

When I’m with my friends, my incessant soul-searching takes a welcome back burner, but the minute I’m alone, which is so rare these days, it envelopes me, turns me around in my chair and faces me head-on. I need to be better about giving myself time. I’m pressuring myself too much to figure out what it is I want to do. All I know is that I live in paradise, that Eden is but a two-hour drive west. It may seem trite or corny, but a walk through 300-year-old trees and a drive down the California coast still reminds me how small I am.

Dear Mr. Bush,

I have always hated you. Let’s be clear on that. When my trusted friends and family asked me to show a little temperance on my blog and in my conversations, I found myself unable. I was, and am, irrational when it comes to you. When my friends, only playing devil’s advocate, would try to reason around my rage, saying “at least Hussein is out of power” and then “at least we caught him” or even “Michelle, stop using the f-word so much when you talk about Bush”, I could only leave the room. It was the only way to still the seething, pouring hatred from coating the people I love. So let’s have the cards on the table: I have always thought you were stupid, evil, and a horrible, destructive joke. When you were running for presidency the first time, I was laughing at you. I thought that there was NO WAY that ANY smart, thinking, caring, loving person would vote for you. But they did. Almost half of this country voted for you. The laugh was on me.

But let’s start there. Almost half. Not even half. Not even half the country voted for you, and yet, you stole the presidency. And very briefly, let’s go back even further. Let’s talk about your dad, and let’s think about his foreign policy and his legacy that bred further hatred for Americans all over the world. I certainly don’t think the son should bear the sins of the father, but you seem to have brought all of those sins packed neatly in a carry-on bag which, devastatingly, is linked with the bags in the overhead compartments that hit towers in the city I love. But… before I let my ugly, pus-filled, throbbing hatred get the better of me, I should move on.

When you let the snowmobiles in Yellowstone, that was bad. I mean, that was really bad. I lived there in that beautiful National Park for a month last summer and I saw wildlife and hiked trails that you sold out for a couple more votes. But if I had known then what I know now, that you set your eye on Iraq long before 9/11, that you twisted the American public’s minds until some of us actually believed that 9/11 and Hussein were linked, that there might actually have been WMD’s in Iraq, that, and this is what I truly believe, you were GLAD that 9/11 happened. You were. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I found out that you knew it was coming and you let it happen. We hated you, Mr. President. Your country hated you, and then something that we thought was worse than you came along and we needed to be healed and there you were, the benevolent parent, the sympathetic leader. But not for long. Within hours you started claiming, “They hate our freedom”. Oh, no, Mr. Bush. They hate you. And because I live in your country and pay your salary, they hate me too. So not only were you able to unite “your” country because of this terrible tragedy, you were able to have a midnight meeting with your cronies where you could rub your hands together and discuss the opportunities that the attacks would give you. “Mmmm,” you breathed. “Mmmm, let’s go get that towel-head in Iraq!”

And then yesterday, three civilians from North Carolina were massacred. Shot, beaten, burned, hung while children literally danced on their burnt heads. Do I feel any different today? No. I’ve always hated you. I’ve always known what you were capable of. I’ve always known that you were willing to sell your country, sell our environment, sell the very air we breathe so your stupid frat-boy lack of intellect, your absolute obtuseness, your dizzying foolishness, your insecure, ugly inner self would feel justified. I don’t think you are a mean guy. I think you are borderline insane.

You are the one dancing on the heads of my children. You are stomping on the heads of your own grandchildren. You care nothing for them, for me, for anyone other than yourself. And the American public still believes in you. I can do nothing about that. But history will show, Mr. President. The books written as soon as you are out of office, as soon as you are cold in your grave, and for the rest of time, will show what you have done, will expose you for who you are.

I will be writing one of those books. That is a promise.

Most Sincerely,

Michelle Williams