January 7, 1977 -
First time I got high was with Kenya and Buick at the house next to mine
in the Canyon. We blazed out of a converted Bubble-Up bottle a friend of Laura's had
made with a glass-cutting kit. We ordered Chinese food and bounced around the
room listening to Houses of the Holy. You
can cope with depression in dozens of ways, but they all need a soundtrack. I could pretend that music offered some supernatural combination of serotonin
and melancholy, or triggered some shaky enlightenment, but that’s a lie.
Sometimes love is immediate, and I was in love with Jay; had it no meaning beyond beautiful songs and temporary
psychic ballast? I was 17, who knows? I love "The Rain Song." It's the most beautiful song I've ever heard.
February 11, 1977 - Then we moved away.

I've never really understood the meaning of happiness. I am appreciative and fortunate, sure, but
happiness always feels like a phantom idea only accessible to the religious, the rich, or the naturally serene (Alwen is like that). Achievement has always mattered more to me because it's
measurable, but then, right there, with Arbor holding my hand and it's just
a box of rain. Who put it there? "Happy?" he said.
"Mostly."
"What do you mean mostly?"
"I mean, yes." I didn’t say it, but I thought it and I
smiled: that the only thing that matters is happiness. I'm here, and I'm having fun
because none of it matters. We might not wake up tomorrow. I squeezed his hand.
When I write I get into a groove. I'm able to live the story; it's both a luxury and a curse. When writing Jay and the Americans, I toyed with other characters and scenarios from the same era to hone what I was doing in the novel. Michelle and the Dead was one of those exercises, and effective lesson in writing from the female perspective. I abandoned the project, but resurrected this piece for AM after coming across it the other day. Enjoy.
Oh, and read Jay and the Americans! Please.
Jay and the Americans is available all over the world!