Chapter 25
From the melting desk of Kate Fair in the agony of her blazing hot apartment
8/26/92
Dear Frida,
Hell hath no fury like Seattle during a drought. The radio says this is our worst water shortage in recorded history. Then they play “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” like that’s funny. It is not funny. It’s almost midnight, and I have my door and window propped open with a big fan between them. It isn’t helping, especially since Ballard sits on Shilshole Bay. The hot air smells like briny old clamshells.
I’m a brat complaining about the heat when you’re probably witnessing horrible things. Concentration camps in 1992? I can’t even fathom it. Sven read this T. S. Eliot line to me about how humankind can’t bear too much reality. It got me thinking, maybe if we care about every single thing that happens in the world (I mean really care the way we do about our own lives), we’d never get up in the morning. I wish I knew how to think about things like this. Whenever I try it’s like a tangled necklace. The more you try to untangle it, the more tangled it gets.
Sorry about the smudges. My hand is drenched in sweat. I’d use my typewriter, but it’s late and everyone’s windows are open. I don’t want to be rude.
I’m sorry about Kirby, but his feelings are probably hurt. He cares about you. You should apologize when you get back. I bet he feels bad about some of the things he said, too.
It made me smile to imagine having that meal with you. I looked up onion confit. I think I’m going to try and make it so we can have your favorite crêpes “together” in Seattle, too. Thank you for saying I’m smart enough for Sven even though I’m not sure it’s true. The other night he got to interview Czeslaw Milosz for Seattle Arts & Lectures. It was a pretty big deal, and afterward we went out to dinner. Mr. Milosz, the store’s book buyer and his wife, and Sven and me at a small table in a tiny private room. One of us was a Nobel Prize winner. One of us was Kate Fair.
When Mr. Milosz started comparing what’s happening in Yugoslavia now to Poland after WWII, I tried to pay attention, but my anxiety took off like a wild mustang. They all had opinions about the war and what they think will happen if Bill Clinton becomes president, and the next thing I know, “Porcupine Pie” starts up at full volume in my head. I was terrified that if I opened my mouth, I’d shriek, “Vanilla soup, a double scoop please!” They’re discussing global politics, and I’m being stalked by Neil Diamond.
They moved on to talking about an artist who refused an NEA grant. You could practically see Sven’s brain pulsing. He wasn’t afraid to give his opinions to a man like that. I was trying to calm myself down when “Coleslaw Meatloaf” popped into my head. Now for the life of me I couldn’t remember Mr. Meatloaf’s real name. On top of that, I couldn’t stop staring at his eyebrows. They were like two nests stuck above his eyes. I kept imagining birds flying out of them.
I was aware of every particle of dust in the air, and good old Neil won’t quit singing about fruity blue cheese in my head. We had him on 8-track when I was a kid, and we practically wore it out in the car. Later when I told Sven how I felt like I was being haunted by “Porcupine Pie,” he said he thinks my present is struggling with my past over who I thought I was versus who I am. I used to be a person who accepted everything without question. Now I’m on the path of Socrates who said an unexamined life isn’t worth living. I’ve become a person who examines life. Sometimes being articulated makes me want to curl up on my love seat and read Happy All the Time until the whole world goes away.
Have a very safe day,
Kate
P.S. You’re never going to believe this. Caftan Dawn gave Sven a check for $80 made out to her therapist so he can figure out why he’s deluding himself about the kind of woman he should be with!