I am expecting to hear from my brother Mike again about why I did not write about his most recent visit. He and his girlfriend, Cate, whom I adore, dropped by on Monday night so I could provide training and software for the new iBook he bought on my recommendation. This was momentous, as no one ever listens to my recommendations, but it was not an unambiguously joyous event: the presence of Mike’s gleaming and glorious new machine also served to highlight the absence of my own precious Powerbook, which has been sent away to have its hinge repaired. I had intended to commemorate this gaping hole in my life by posting a week’s worth of stories about spooky encounters with death, however my access to borrowed computers has been unexpectedly limited.

As I think of my poor baby, strewn across some stranger’s workbench, I am moved to continue my theme.

Picture it: Edinburgh, Scotland. February 2002. The Mercat Cross. My ex-boyfriend Michael stopped to read some signs that had been posted, and as I waited for him, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the idea that people had died on that very spot, perhaps many people. My legs became weak, and I actually had to lean against a lamppost because I was afraid I might pass out. For some reason, I was embarrassed by this reaction and did my best to minimize it, but I did not forget it. Later, in a museum, I learned that it was an accurate sensation: Mercat Cross was apparently an execution site during at least part of Edinburgh’s bloody history.

I am not certain why I was struck by that particular location. I live in New York City, where, if chalk outlines were permanent, the streets would resemble an extensive Keith Haring painting. Maybe I am just crazy.

Luckily, I received no death vibes from my unfortunate little Powerbook, which Steve Jobs willing, should be home with me soon. Until then, blogging may be a bit spotty, but I will try to squeeze in the spine-tingling tale of what happened when I spent the night in Lizzie Borden’s house.