The month was May, but the winds were unmistakably October as I made my way through the carnival side show atmosphere of Sproul Plaza, U.C. Berkeley. The year was 1982, and I was within two weeks of completing my second year of undergraduate work, so I felt quite at home with the local street freaks who entertained the students with their shows performed on the steps leading to the student union. As I walked, I saw the Polka Dot Man don another layer of dots to quell the chill that raced through his body with each gust, and I watched the Bubble Lady, who seemed pleased that the wind was blowing her bubbles for her. I was headed home after a long day of school, and I would be lucky to get there just ahead of the storm.
The unseen presence of the wind beckoned me from all directions. I fought against its incessant tugging and nudging and pulling upon my clothes to make my way towards the bus stop. The storm brewing inside my head was beginning to match the one outside, and I began to feel the spinning vertigo of a four-year old undiagnosed vestibular disorder quickly take hold and start a game of tug-o-war with the wind. The game ended abruptly when a piece of pale green paper that had been dancing in the wind appeared out of nowhere, jumped onto my leg, and fluttered like a snare drum to announce its arrival.
The paper had latched itself firmly around the base of my leg, and I carefully bent down to release its leech-like grip upon me. It struggled momentarily as an unwilling prisoner confined within the powerful grasp of a captor before relaxing into a moment of still silence that allowed my gaze to fall upon its message. My lips had barely begun to form the largest words adorning the center of the page when the wind briskly snatched the paper from my hands to set it free once more.
I unwillingly joined the carnival side-show act as the unseen forces of wind and vertigo transformed me into a human pinball bouncing around Sproul Plaza, hands grasping unsuccessfully for an errant pale green piece of paper that tauntingly remained just beyond my reach. When a bellowing gasp of wind launched the paper high into the air then down into the middle of a busy street, I reluctantly gave up the chase and leaned up against a street light pole to catch my breath and my balance.
From where I stood, I could just barely make out the familiar form of the announcement board at the entrance to the plaza. My eyes, still darting back and forth a bit from the vertigo, managed to fix upon the recognizable colors which blurred into an impressionisticc work of art upon the face of the board, framed beautifully by the large wooden planks which held it all together. I released my grip from the light pole and let the wind gently guide my swaying steps until at last I found myself standing in front of the huge structure which was adorned from head to toe in the pale green garb of spring. Each sheet of paper was securely fastened to the board with staples in each corner, so I had no trouble reading the message that had eluded me so well only moments ago:
SUPERB/ASUC Presents
NOTED SCIENCE FICTION AUTHOR
RAY BRADBURY
Author of "FAHRENHEIT 451", "THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES", & "THE ILLUSTRATED MAN"
THURSDAY, MAY 13TH 8:00 PM
WHEELER AUD.
TICKETS: $3.50 STUDENTS $5.00 GENERAL
Yes, the October winds that had prevailed in so many of my favorite author's stories came unexpectedly in May; and with them came Ray Bradbury himself. I reached up and carefully removed one of the fliers from the bulletin board, folded it neatly into a fraction of its original size, tucked it safely into my pocket, and headed for home.
The May 13th sky was clear and the air was still as I pulled my favorite U.C. Berkeley Museum of Paleontology shirt over my head. It was a black t-shirt with the bold white skeleton of a Tyrannosaurus Rex silk screened onto the front. I quickly covered the Thunder Lizard with a wind breaker; then I made my way out the door towards my destination: Wheeler Auditorium.
Bradbury's lecture was nothing short of awe inspiring. I had read most of his short stories and all of his novels, so I could identify with every word that sprung from his mouth. He shared with us how he got the ideas for his stories about space travel and dinosaurs and death and how he learned early in life to quit thinking and start doing. He cautioned us all:
"Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't ‘try' to do things. You simply ‘must' do things."
And so I did.
Upon the conclusion of his lecture, Bradbury invited his guests forward for an autograph and book signing session. I waited impatiently as the man in front of me wielded a suitcase full of first edition Bradbury books and requested that they all be signed. My hand nervously picked at the zipper on my wind breaker as I awaited my turn. And when Bradbury's eyes met mine in a moment of silence awaiting my request; without even a hint of forethought, the following words came bellowing out of my mouth:
"Would you sign my dinosaur, please?"
"Of course!" he replied, as his eyes smiled intently at me in anticipation. In silence, and in one continuous swoop of the hand, I unzipped my jacket to reveal the apparition of a chalk-white Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton fixed upon my black shirt. My dinosaur, whose mouth was opened wide as it seemed to rest its head comfortably upon my breast, sent Mr. Bradbury reeling back a few steps.
Grasping at his heart, Bradbury blurted out, "What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack? I'm getting a bit too old for this kind of stuff!"
"Will you sign my ticket envelope instead?"
"Yes, of course!" The October winds bellowed from his mouth and upon my hands which held the small white envelope that I nervously asked him to sign. And when he had finished, our eyes met in another moment of silence broken only by the words "thank you" escaping quietly from my mouth.
On Sunday, October 20, 1991, a day that has been etched into the memories of the thousands of people who lost their homes in the great conflagration up in the Berkeley-Oakland hills, I was unexpectedly grabbed by an unseasonably warm wind as I left the sanctuary at the end of an unusually short church service. "This is Ray Bradbury weather!" I excitedly proclaimed to my husband. He said in return, "This is fire weather!" We both turned out to be right.
When we arrived home, I spread the Sunday newspaper out on the floor and began looking for my favorite page in the "events" section. The October winds had carried the smell of burning grass over 15 miles from its origin to where I was sitting, and I became aware of it about the same time my eyes captured these familiar letters from the page: Ray Bradbury.
"I can't believe it! Ray Bradbury's coming to town! He's going to be at Cody's Bookstore this Saturday!"
My Tyrannosaurus t-shirt was long gone, but my memory of the night I first met Ray Bradbury over nine years ago was clearly not, nor was my undiagnosed vestibular disorder. Despite having been quite ill all week with unremitting vertigo and disequilibrium, I looked forward to the opportunity to hear his motivational words once more. Saturday came quickly, and I found myself in the passenger seat of our car as my husband drove me to Cody's Bookstore in Berkeley.
As we made our 20 minute trip into town, my husband and I both tried to picture what the Berkeley-Oakland hills would look like after the devastating fire; but neither one of us were prepared for the mile after endless mile of charred ruins which draped the hills like the cloak of Death itself. I pretended I could see two young boys playing Musician in the "black leaves" that covered the foundation of one of the old houses, just as they had done in the dead Martian towns which had been burned to the ground by the Firemen in The Martian Chronicles.
We arrived in time to do some last-minute shopping in preparation for the event. I knew exactly what I was looking for, but knew not where it would be found. Fortunately, there was a t-shirt store just down the street from Cody's, and I jumped at the chance to search every rack until I finally found what I was looking for. I pulled the shirt off its hanger and was pleased to see the letters XL at the top of the tag. I needed the shirt to easily fit over the clothes I was already wearing, and it did. As soon as I had made my purchase and left the store, I pulled off my jacket, donned the shirt (which had a silk-screened version of the Far Side cartoon where two dinosaurs are smoking cigarettes with a caption that read, "The real reason why dinosaurs became extinct") then put my jacket back on and zipped it up.
Bradbury's talk was short, but it was no less powerful than the one he delivered in Wheeler Auditorium so many years ago. A wave of nervousness cascaded through me as Mr. Bradbury announced at the conclusion of his lecture that there would be a book signing on the first level of the bookstore.
This time I was prepared with book in hand and dinosaurs on chest. I had marked the page containing my favorite Bradbury poem in his book of poems, and I planned on beginning my request there.
Bradbury was still bubbling with energy as I approached the small table at which he sat eagerly with purple pen in hand.
"Will you sign my favorite poem?" I asked as I placed my book before him on the table.
"Remembrance!" That's my favorite, too. A familiar wave of nostalgia must have passed through him as he spoke of his boyhood trips to the ravine where the story within his poem took place. When he finished signing his name to the end of the poem, without even a hint of forethought, the following words came bellowing out of my mouth:
"Would you sign my dinosaurs, too?"
"Of course!" he replied, as his eyes smiled intently at me in anticipation. In silence, and in one continuous swoop of the hand, I unzipped my jacket to reveal two cigarette smoking dinosaurs with mischievous eyes who appeared to have no interest whatsoever in my breasts. Bradbury raised his purple felt tipped pen up into the air as an artist about to make the first strokes of his paintbrush onto the untouched canvass.
"I'm going to have to be careful here! I think I'll call this one ‘Mad Love'!"
And with those words in mind, he began to write upon the white sky above the dinosaurs, and I could feel each letter as it was borne upon my upper chest just below my neckline:
M-A-D L-O-V-E.
"I'm really going to have to watch out now!" Bradbury said as he signed his name directly beneath the words he had just written. Our eyes met in one brief moment of silence broken only by the words "thank you" escaping quietly from my mouth.
Last May I unexpectedly came upon my Ray Bradbury autographed dinosaur t-shirt while searching my closet for something to wear to my otologist's appointment. I still hadn't found the cause of my unremitting vestibular symptoms, but I was determined to! I paused for a moment to feel the May-turned-October breeze that blew through the bathroom window behind me the moment I pulled the shirt out of the closet. Goose bumps covered my arms as I held out the shirt and began to relive in my mind that day over seven years ago when Ray Bradbury became doctor to diagnose me with an incurable case of mad love, proclaiming his diagnosis across the top of my shirt. The primary symptom of this strange affliction seems to be the inability to show forethought in situations that may arouse a state of action-inhibiting self-consciousness. The result is that I can't just "try" to do things. I "must" do things.
It's quite obvious that none of my "real" doctors suffer from "mad love," for try as they may, they never could come up with a diagnosis for my twenty-year-old vestibular disorder, much less a viable treatment. But I, with Dr. Bradbury's diagnosis permanently etched into my chest, didn't just "try" to uncover the underlying cause of my unremitting disequilibrium and sporadic bouts of vertigo that often kept me in bed. I had the audacity to actively start searching for a diagnosis the very day my otologist encouraged me to accept the fact that the technology did not exist to determine the underlying cause of my illness.
It took me less than four months to find the cause of my vestibular disorder by searching Medline article abstracts on the Internet. I printed out three of the abstracts and took them into my primary care doctor to request authorization for the necessary tests which would confirm that my platelets were forming tiny plugs which sporadically impaired the blood flow to my vestibular organs resulting in the symptoms that had plagued me for so many years.
My doctor seemed to agree that I should be tested for platelet hyperaggregability (the scientific name for the condition I suspected I had), so without even a hint of forethought, the following words raced out of my mouth:
"Would you sign my authorization slip?"
This was one moment I was glad that I didn't have any dinosaurs on my shirt nor did the doctor put his signature on my chest.
It's been over six months since my vertigo, disequilibrium, and tinnitus were swept away effortlessly with October's winds when the medication prescribed to eliminate my platelet hyperaggregability took effect. Fortunately, the drug has had no effect whatsoever on my unremitting case of mad love; for on June 15, 1999 my dinosaurs and I will be attending the Oregon Graduate Institute's Picnic in the Park event featuring seventy-eight year old Ray Bradbury who will be speaking on "A Look Into the Next Millennium."
I hope Mr. Bradbury will have his usual autograph and book signing session following his talk because I want to thank him once more for pronouncing his priceless diagnosis upon me - a diagnosis which will still be etched into the heart within my chest the very day the winds of the next millennium have gathered up enough strength to briskly snatch me from the hands of life, launching me high into the air of eternity itself and setting me free once more.
April 16, 1999