When I met Michael I was still listening to just tapes - he bought me my first CD player.
It's our anniversary! And immigrants all over will be taking the day off to celebrate!
Sixteen years ago, the first Bush was president, Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation and Madonna's Vogue were hits, Seinfeld was in its first season, Ghost and Dances with Wolves were released as movies.
And Michael and I got married, in the Multnomah County Courthouse. Then we went to Atwater's for our reception. Then we went to Powell's bookstore and ended up at the Imperial Hotel for the night.
We spent our honeymoon at Sylvia Beach hotel, in the Colette and Agatha Christie rooms.
We got married on a Tuesday. My dad said, "no one gets married on a Tuesday!"
But we wanted to get married on May 1st.
This is a poem I wrote for Michael, in 1989:
He'll be a musician
in leather because there are songs
to be played. I'll carry his voice
on a tape with me everywhere,
in the grocery store I'll fondle
vegetables to the strum of his guitar.
I'll pull him from the line-up and
invent new crimes. We'll save
our lies for quick getaways.
I'll offer him a a palette and he'll
always choose black, the color
of conspiracy and machines.
I'll fall in love and present the evidence,
his face will be an answer.
I'll steal his coat and give him my hands
to be his hands. Together our bodies
will decipher what our words don't say,
a language of here and now.
I'll want the disaster of romance,
the sudden collision of needs
to embrace me. He'll play music
to suggest an intimate escape.
The night will accuse of premeditated
encounters and we'll surrender,
I love you Michael.