Open System

snow & clouds, by Diana Kimball.

The decade started on a beige eMachine, in my bedroom, at twelve years old. I feel really dumb writing to a computer about my life, but I guess it should be worth something someday. This journal entry still sleeps on my silver laptop, carried by floppies and compact discs and firewire to today—living in the same flat file as letters I wrote last week. And that’s amazing, that the residue of the past ten years can already be history, can rustle against the present.

So many surges of novelty have sunk into normalcy! Information in the air, becoming and then unbecoming a teenager. Arial Narrow (my eMachine font of choice) into Times New Roman (school papers) into Helvetica (a post-paper world.) Straight hair down to my shoulder blades at twelve, and even that was a change from before.

This year, too—the scope feels hysterically improbable. I started and finished my thesis between January and March, took photographs, flew to Texas. In June, I graduated from college and moved to the opposite side of the country. In September, my brother suddenly died. Today, even the shock of that has subdued into something familiar.

All the while, trying to gently persist in an open system—haltingly, hopefully, these arcs all unbounded by the same volume of time.

Capacity for Love

canyon, originally uploaded by Diana Kimball.

At the funeral home, we sat on a floral couch. Chapstick in a jacket pocket, buried between couch cushions. I shifted sadly in my seat. Music piped in over the speakers, chosen in the dead of night: strings, songs about avalanches. While my mind slipped out of focus, blurring.

Before my brother died, his organs failed. Suddenly, completely. Leaving the hospital, my dad asked the surgeon if any of Spencer’s organs could save anyone else; “he would have wanted that,” we reassured ourselves. The surgeon said they couldn’t.

Once we were home, calling everyone we knew, the hospital called one more time. They could save his eyes—his corneas at least. “I guess I should tell you that he wore glasses,” my mom told the hospital. They said it would be all right.

So his universe was full of dark angles, devastating humility and desire; surprising light.

But when I think about the past three months, I can’t hold them all at once—everything starts to blur. Most days have been lighter, at least: just waking up, under a window or high heavy ceiling.

I know that on September 21, the day Spencer overdosed, I took the train to work in the morning. At my desk, I started a new notebook:

All weekend, I looked ahead to today—with a mix of wariness and optimism.

This morning, I’m wearing: a teal t-shirt, a purple cardigan, a golden locket. Listening to the Antlers. Eating Kashi Heart-to-Heart cereal out of a compostable bowl. Staring at quivering ice water.

What do I want my days to look like, now? I feel like I’m entering the next stage of something.

Before I knew anything—before anything had happened! But the incredible part is: this has been the start of something.

In his last letter, a suicide note, Spencer wrote that the greatest compliment anyone had ever given him was that he had an amazing capacity for love. I think I’ll try to hold that instead.

Last Words

light, originally uploaded by Diana Kimball.

Spencer Miles Kimball was born on April 21, 1989. He came into the world blue: his circulation was slow to acclimate. But when he came home, he was home for good.

His hair was light red, at first, and wispy.

When he was two, our sister Laura was born. Her brain could not tell her how to breathe. She stayed in the hospital for weeks, until she had to be taken off the respirator at last. Spencer and I sat outside Laura's hospital room, working on farm animal coloring books quietly. We went into the room to kiss her goodbye. This was one of Spencer's first memories.

When he was four, Jordan was born. With red hair, too: things changed forever.

In second grade, Spencer got in trouble for daydreaming; he couldn’t stop. After school, he would design imaginary dream homes and think about wolves.

At seven, Spencer started a paper route, which we shared. Walking down cul-de-sacs, we both daydreamed; the paper route lasted five years.

High school was difficult. He was a writer. Too far ahead in math for comfort, too far behind in his classes to relax, Spencer in his junior year adopted “the vampire schedule.” He would go to sleep as soon as he returned from school each afternoon, and wake up before the rest of us had turned in for the night. He would work until morning, watching episodes in between essays. He was fond of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but he believed in Angel.

Fall 2007, he started at the University of Michigan. It was a dark fall: a close friend of his friends committed suicide. Toward winter, Spencer was briefly hospitalized for suicidal thoughts. It was only his fourth time in a hospital: birth, Laura's death; a popcorn kernel stuck in his ear as a toddler. For a dark fall, the fourth time was dark, too.

But things looked up. Spencer lived in a dorm room and learned about music. He learned about Russian literature; he wrote poetry. He wrote about his fears and his revelations. His poems drew tears of recognition. His words were naked, precise, and aching; and lovely.

In December 2008, Spencer fell in love. It was winter break; he came home in disbelief, shy ecstasy. “She kissed me.”

His fondest, most urgent hope was to become a writer. He spent the first part of 2009 sending his work in to writing contest after writing contest. On his computer, he kept a document called LIST OF THINGS I WANT. The list was only writing prizes, and contained a note to himself at the end: CHECK WIKIPEDIA LIST OF POETRY AWARDS FOR MORE THINGS IF SUCCESS AT ANY STAGE ACHIEVED. At the end of summer, he won second place in two separate contests—one for nonfiction, one for poetry.

It’s important to know that, on the last day of summer, 2009, Spencer tried to kill himself. Five days later, he died.

_____

Spencer was a devoted underliner. He was loyal to his impulses. On a page with every sentence marked, one passage held the distinction of being underscored twice. “People call me a saint,” Paul Farmer said, “and I think, I have to work harder. Because a saint would be a great thing to be.”

Spencer was no saint: he never stopped trying.

_____

At this impossible time, the kind words of dear friends and strangers have sustained me and sustained my family. They've made things lighter; I hold them closer than you know. Thank you.

Every Word

Spencer, originally uploaded by Diana Kimball.

Last week, my brother Spencer tried to kill himself. He swallowed fifty pills, an enormous overdose of anti-depressants. He survived. And was rushed to the hospital, but stayed sedated for five days while the doctors waited for all the serotonin to leave. On Saturday afternoon, his fever spiked suddenly, without explanation. Meanwhile, his blood pressure dropped. By the evening, he was in critical condition. The surgeon tried to get his heart to start again. Spencer died before midnight.

My brother suffered from anxiety and depression for most of his life, and was hospitalized for suicidal ideation in 2007. This did not come out of nowhere. But there is no way I can believe that it’s true.

This is how it’s true.

On Monday, I got a call on the train home from work, Mountain View to San Francisco. “Spencer's okay,” my mom told me. I worried all week. But everyone thought he would live. The question was how—how would he go on after he woke up; not whether. On Thursday, things took a turn for the worse. We were still sure it was how. But I flew home to Ann Arbor anyway, on an overnight flight; choking on foreboding.

Friday morning, my flight arrived; I went to the hospital to see Spencer, without first sleeping. Later, I wrote that he looked like a hulking baby. Red hair tousled, eyes closed, tubes—restless in sedated sleep.

Machines bleating, we left. We were still exasperated: a futile feeling, staving off sadness with anger.

On Saturday, Spencer's condition deteriorated. An intern called in the morning; a surgeon called in the afternoon. We held our breath. Later, the hospital told us we needed to come immediately. We drove slowly, carefully—afraid to die.

___

Spencer knew he was going to die.

In the last letter he wrote, he insisted. “I've had a more or less good life, and I'm just at my breaking point. I think some people come into the world with a low tolerance for pain—I count myself among them, and I’m lucky I've had as much joy as I have.”

As empty as I feel, I know he meant every word.

___

Spencer Miles Kimball was born on April 21, 1989, and died on September 26, 2009, at the age of 20. He lived in Ann Arbor all his life, and was a junior at the University of Michigan. He is survived by his mother and father, Miles Kimball and Gail Cozzens Kimball, and two siblings—Diana and Jordan Kimball. He is predeceased by two sisters, Marianne Camilla (d. 1985) and Laura Beth (d. 1991).

Spencer was a writer and a poet. He loved his family and his friends fiercely, and was loyal to a fault. Music and reading were his solace and joy. He believed in the power of fiction and the elegance of truth.

Kickstarter, and Imminence

billboard, originally uploaded by Diana Kimball.

Saturdays ago, with the windows rolled down, Robin drove to Daly City. And I sat alongside in the wind tunnel, while we raised our voices above the open air, about reversals.

What happens when affirmation comes first?

Last week, my friend nickd announced that he's writing a book on interaction design, called Cadence & Slang. And Robin is writing a mystery. Both of them are funding the books through Kickstarter, a new place to ransom ideas worth believing in.

It strikes me that the imminence of Kickstarter is powerful and simple. Calculate how much money it will take to make an idea come true (a physical resolution); post the project and the projected cost, make measured promises; solicit support while the clock runs down. If backers meet the ransom before time runs out, the money gets handed over instantly. If not? That's information, too—an indication that something was off. Dread of that indication fuels inordinate effort. No waiting around to be discovered: you will do whatever it takes to earn the conviction of others.

What floors me about all of this is the way that nickd & Robin are striking out on their own, with earnest trepidation and confident hope. Kickstarter solves a problem I've been frustrated by for some time: when traditional publishing channels falter, how do writers calculate whether their work is worth believing in?

Then, I didn't know the solution, and wrote:

The dream of becoming a “published author” is haunting. Becoming one, for most of the twentieth century, was a worthy goal because it was incredibly difficult to achieve. To achieve it meant conquering all of the obstacles put in place by the publishing industry to keep unmarketable or uninspired texts from reaching bookstore shelves. In a sense, it meant winning—over other manuscripts and other authors, but also over one’s own self-doubt. It did not, of course, always or even often translate to riches. But to become a published author at least meant that someone else believed in a work enough to bet on its success.

Kickstarter is not the solution, but it is the best solution I've so far seen. Because: yes! “To become a published author means that someone else believes in a work enough to bet on its success.” Maybe many other people, proving themselves discerning by putting their money on the line.

I am excited by the existence of this tool. With talented people like nickd and Robin setting out to do the brave things they've always meant to do, what could go wrong? What could go right? I can't wait to hear about all their triumphs and missteps—I think they will run into a different assembly of obstacles than usual. Because there's all this pressure from other people counting on you, but: only alongside the knowledge that they believe in what you intend to create.

(In your intention, and so, in you.)

Kickstarter forces promotion, planning, and urgency to the beginning, right when affirmation is most precious. By creating a public contract, Kickstarter takes the vanity out of self-publishing. It's not you publishing it, not really; it's all the people who trusted in your work enough to bet on its success.

“The money” Robin confided, “is nothing, compared to just knowing.”

All At Once

caltrain, originally uploaded by Diana Kimball.

When the urge to write started tugging and whispering, I knew something was up. It took several days to remember why, just in time:

Today, http://dianakimball.com is two years old! (August 18, 2007; August 19, 2008.)

The second year of writing here has been very different from the first.

The first year, I was enchanted by everything. This year, I was thrilled even more by impulsive tools.

Because: ideas are worth so much in the moment they happen. Our imaginations are consumed by these floating, glistening-thin slabs of colored plexiglass, translucent; ideas overlapping. But keeping that space—the uncompressed field of hovering abstracts—only, adding to it the dimension of time, in effortless catalogs of jewel-toned detritus? Those open stashes of unthought impulses have retrieved for me: cyclicity, spontaneity, intimacy.

Since moving to San Francisco, I’ve partly started over. But every day, I find myself recovering more than I invent. I spend time thinking about: lighting, wind, information; standards and validation. I take pictures with my telephone out the train window, and it’s: the past! The future! All at once.

Meanwhile, Everything Else

wyoming, originally uploaded by Diana Kimball.

Excerpts from letters sent in the space between graduation and San Francisco.

0528 Endtimes, my friend calls them, are truly surreal. Love, mourning, boredom. Final revelations, disappointments, surprises.

0531 Brittany and Kelly, in red and white dresses, outside of a sweating tent.

0601 Dark out, cotton shorts, cough calmed by a hot shower.

0603 Everything's down but brass tacks, thin flags, ‘a game of hidden identity.’

0609 There were tendrils of green everywhere….I have to believe, feelings are just waiting in line, patiently, waiting to be simply felt.

0610 And: manic pixie dream girls, love, and expectations.

0614 Where I am: in an airport, belongings hanging from my shoulder, between Chicago and Toronto.

0621 Now, she is asleep in the pink plush rocker, softly snoring.

0630 There are: gladiolas, yellow vinyl chairs, teal sheets. I love walking into the wind, and all the low warehouses, down wide sidewalks.

0705 Anything new, (which is everything),

____

*“Plunder,” by A.R. Ammons.