Doe Bay


Team Gorse BustersJake and Wally Doe Bay sunset Pile on Alice busting some gorse

What I expected to start as a purely relaxing work-weekend started with a lesson in letting go. I’m learning I’m not the best judge of character—I see something good and I want the rest of the picture to match.  It takes a lot for me to adjust my idea of someone, and it’s often a painful process.  Friday I found myself crying in the stairwell at work, completely shocked and devastated at just how wrong I’d been about love.  My friends picking me up for Doe Bay were nearly en-route, my bags packed with gardening gloves, wine bottles and groceries, my computer still glowing with the last tasks of the week.  My friend K- sat with me and listened until I was ready to walk back to my desk.  She came out to the elevator with me, hugged me as I left, and I got into the car in a blur of wrung-out-tension.

By the time we reached the ferry I was in a completely different state.  B and A are engaged now, and A is a relentless source of laughter, singing and joy—and one of the kindest people I’ve met.  We taught M how to play Rummikub on the boat and got into Doe Bay with enough time to hit the hot tubs and sauna.  Wine and games and laughter until 2 am—although it’s a work weekend, it barely feels like it.

Doe Bay is such a magical place, and I’m so lucky that I get to help make it more beautiful.  I ran into a woman in the sauna who asked what our group was doing—when I explained the Gorse Busting she told me that her best friend was married out at Gorse Point.  This wouldn’t have been possible just a few years ago. It’s a great feeling: I worked with people I love to make a place for two people, strangers to me, to acknowledge their own love.

It was wonderful to see my friends in such good spirits.  There are new relationships, new engagements, new marriages.  Last year I was heart-sick, using this space to heal.  This year I’m just excited—I am going to Mexico in a few short weeks, my best friend is moving home, I can use my apartment to host dinner parties and game nights, and I’m getting stronger. My cross country coach used to say “Water off a duck’s back” whenever we were caught up about bad races. I think it’s a good motto, and something I’m working towards. So let my misplaced love roll down my back and away. I have so much love to give and it just keeps growing.

Work in progress, started at Doe Bay.



Dinosaurs and Names

Last night I went to a RadioLab live show with my aunt, uncle, and H. The night started with mishap—apparently it’s the Beaujolais Nouveau Wine Festival, though you wouldn’t know it from looking at Maximillian’s website. Foiled plan, turned off cell-phones, freezing cold… I was cranky pants by the time we made it to our very loud but only solution bar. My whole plan of nice conversation with a glass of wine turned to shouting across at each other and only catching snippets that resulted in questions like Do you have any metal in your body and By kidnapping children, I mean she WANTED to kidnap a toddler

RadioLab had just about the coolest dinosaur puppets I’ve ever seen, and the comedian who opened the whole thing was pretty funny.  In general, I think the In The Dark show was a little better, but they didn’t fail to amaze with stories and facts and a little bit of Dino Dancing.  I love how absolutely dorky the whole thing is. I think my favorite part, though, was the way they ended the piece about the death of the dinosaurs.  Multiple screens, a live video collage and swelling orchestral rock music. It’s hard to replicate in words (as most music/experiential moments are), and I hope that’s part of the broadcast when they put up the podcast.  I remember walking out sort of dazed by the ending of the show last time, and I sort of wish the dinosaur piece had been last and we’d left to that emotion, rather than where it ended with Reggie Watts. C’est la vie.

As we walked out we started talking about names. I love how many people I know have given themselves their names, and it reminded me of an essay I wrote that never actually made it to the blog about my fascination with middle names. There has been a recent spate of nicknames at my office, but I don’t ever seem to get one (that I know about at least).  Am I too stuffy? I think I take myself far too seriously.  The only nickname I’ve sort of had was Watson, but it was only because my friend lived on Baker Street in London for a while, and my name was only in response to his.  Pet names don’t really stick either. Maybe some day.  Anyway, here’s the essay, for your enjoyment.


Maybe it started with the Broadway musical Cats.  I can’t tell you how many times my sister and I listened to the cassette, but it was enough.  If you aren’t familiar, there’s a song called “The Naming of Cats” in which the cats sing “But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,/And that is the name that you never will guess;/The name that no human research can discover–/But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. “  There was power in this cat-name, and power in withholding it.  To name something was to know it—and as I think about it, I find this idea reoccurring in the stories that swirled around my childhood.  The NeverEnding Story ends in an act of naming. Malicious Rumplestiltskin is defeated when his name is called out and he stomps his way out of existence. The world is created as God names his creations. Mythology after mythology, names, and the knowing of names, is power.

My family has a duplicitous relationship with names.  My mother’s brother is Howard, David, Dave, and Doobie.  My cousin is Rami and Corrina.  My aunt is named Sharon but goes my Louise. Another aunt shifted from Ann to Anna, and was at some point something so complex I can’t remember it now.   In conversation names shifted while the subject remained the same. Corrina left the house and Rami boarded the train.  Howard was coming to Christmas late and Doobie walks in halfway through dinner.  One had to follow the subject, not the description.  There is also mimicry—both my father and brother are Michael, though my brother has a David between first and last to differentiate.  Strangely enough though, neither my sister nor I, nor my parents, had middle names.  It is as if, with the exhaustion of keeping everyone else straight, ours remained simple.  (My mother has since taken my stepfather’s last as her middle, and though she’s had it for years, it still hard for me to think of her as anything but her first and last name, written in her slanting script across the return address of envelopes.)

I used to feel envy towards the middle names that surrounded me.  I even gave one to myself for my eighth grade graduation, to match my best friend’s initials. The name didn’t stick – it wasn’t mine, and I knew it.  I can’t say when my envy shifted, but at some point my lack became an oddness that I am strangely proud of.  My (non) middle name will always be unknowable. It’s like the riddle that asks “What kind of gun do you use to kill a pink elephant” and answers “Have you ever seen a pink elephant?”

This riddle is a one way street. I get to ask a question I can never answer for myself.  Henry. Eric. Michael. William. Rene. Ryan. Robert. I learn middle names with a voracious appetite.  Each name is a thrill not unlike a first kiss, and, like my kisses, this attention is predominately focused on men.  I casually learn women’s names, but not with the same driven focus.  I drill myself on names and it’s utterly masculine. I list them to myself, first, middle, last.  Adam. Ian. I learn the stories of the middle name—what distant relative or folk hero his parents had in mind, how often the name is dusted off and worn.  Some middle names fit while others are more uncomfortable and clumsy on my tongue. Patrick. Richard. Andrew.  I try to remember them all, regardless.

I have yet to meet a man without three names, besides my father.  I wonder what I will do when confronted with an equal void. An unsolvable x. Will we create our own names? Maybe.  There’s something about an emptiness that asks to be filled.


I’m headed out to Orcas Island for the annual Gorse Busting Fest, with some of the coolest and kindest people I know. We’ll work together, sweat together, eat together, and play endless rounds of Dominion. See you soon guys!