and we held hands like this

Never before have I been to so many holiday parties. Not bad for being the new girl. They blend together in an early morning snowfall haze of too many drinks, an abundance of finger foods and heaps of idle chit chat. Picture us wrapped in garland and singing Christmas carols. Picture us drinking eggnog and munching on gingerbread men. Picture us as we toast the holiday and then walk out into the 40 degree, no snow winter that is Seattle in December. In 5 days I go home. To snow. To icy. To seeing my breath. Maybe then it will feel like Christmas.

One of the parties ended with a drunk 26 year old in my apartment, in his underwear and me wondering how exactly this happened. We talked most of the night and held hands off and on. He is complex in a "could fuel a trilogy" sort of way. His angst was apparent. Confused. Alone. Unsure. Is that all of us at 26? All of us prone to thinking too much. All of us prone to wearing our hearts on our sleeves. I listened to him unravel and came across as the level headed of the pair. You have no idea how novel that was. Pigs were flying by my window with yellow miners hats on so they could find their way in the dark.

Ha...

Me? Level headed?

From the desk of cryptic being the new straightforward: I had a thing for a thing and it went really well. I don’t know when I’ll hear about the thing, but I’m guessing soon. And while I’m not giving much away, trust me when I say it’s pretty much all I want for Christmas. That and world peace, or something. And those cute lime green shoes. And something to wear with them. But that’s it. I swear.

I've made a new friend and she is a red head. I have another friend who is a blond. We occasionally all hang out. In case you didn’t know, I have dark brown hair. So, together we form some sort of Playboy pictorial waiting to happen. Or better yet, some fast forward to a “where are they now” expose on the Power Puff Girls. We’ve talked a little bit about the hair trio we form and how many hair trios have gone before us - - from Charlie’s Angels to 9-5 to the aforementioned kindergartners out to save the world. We feel as though we should do something with this power, but we can’t decide on anything. We’re too lazy to fight crime. Too shy to pose nude. Seems like the most we can muster is attending happy hours together. Perhaps there is a sitcom in there somewhere.

And incase you were wondering. Yeah, the blond is the hot one. I’m the smart one who cleans up well. And the red head, she’s quirky with impeccable taste in footwear.

I painted this weekend and finished one piece. It’s either proof that I’m crazy or my inner child bonked me over the head and took control of the brushes. It’s a nighttime winter wonderland kind of thing with snowflakes and stars and there are a ... um ... a buncha pandas in it. Some may be floating. Others sitting in trees. Infestation style. It’s cute though. I’ll try to post a picture.

Panda.

Infestation.

Mmmm.

granny smith

My friend Jessica and I made a trip to the Apple Store yesterday. My enterprising kitten had chewed though my docking cord ($29.99) and my iPod headphones ($39.99.) Yes. I still love her, just not as much. We walked in and DANG, it's well lit in there. Jess immediately turns to me and humorously asks how her complexion looks. Horrible, I reply. She concurred. It was operating room quality cold cold white bright light. We needed sunglasses. We needed lead vests. I was waiting to be knocked out so the "Genius" could remove my gallbladder.

But you know what. It's still better than sporting a PC. Apples have heartbeats. HEARTBEATS. Nuff said.

Confidential to UNreturnable in Seattle: HA HA.

it's fun like cotton candy

Today is art walk day! We're mulling wine and seving homemade cookies and drinking beer and listening to music all the while people come and go and stop and talk and we pretty much smile the whole time. Pictures tomorrow on the art space site!

fearless

The room was street light blue, soaked in middle of the night quiet. He was sound asleep. Splayed out on his stomach, facing the closet and not me. There were tiny curls in his silhouette. Poking out from his mash of dark dark brown hair. My hand on his back, he was breathing the kind of breaths that happen only in sleep. Deep inhales and savored exhales. I was tired and groggy but open eyed. Sleep had come and went with his movements. This was all new. The sleeping together. His rhythmic breathing. The wee hour silence. Inhale and exhale. Inhale and exhale.

If we were a picture just then, it would have been in soft focus.

With all the power of a misspoken sentence or midnight telephone call, he stirred. I slid my hand from his back, tucked it under my head. He rearranged himself in the blankets and sleepfluffed his pillows. His legs chased around for a new best place to rest. He was a flurry of activity and blankets and arms. Then. He settled slow. His legs, still. His arms, tucked. Before he laid his head down, he leaned over with barely open eyes and half asleep kissed me. Soft, quick and perfect. Then his head, nestled in pillows.

And me. Kissed. Wondering how he even knew where I was in the mess of queen size sheets and clingy kitten and my tangle of dark dark brown curls.

Slowed by sleep and dulled by tired, my defenses were down. Clear as day. Bright as snow. True as a compass it came. Not love or hope or contentment. Not thankfulness or peace or wanting to stop time. Instead it was the fear that has kept him at arms length by part of me while being pulled close by the rest. How. Would. I. Ever. Get. Over. Him? In the flawless of that kiss and the happy it washed over me, my first thought upon returning my hand to the small of his back was of him not being there anymore.

What a waste of a moment.

Unavailable. He fits the mold. There is a river between us even when it’s cozy and quiet and smooshed together and his breathing is slow and his skin is warm and oh. There is no talk of running away or turning our lives upside down for this chemistry that makes him kiss me half asleep. That’s the safe of this. The scary is that he is perfect. For me. Curious and talented and complex. Playful and creative and whip smart. He’s a million piece puzzle. He knows how I work, like a machine, watching me push and pull him back and forth. And for all this attraction and friendship and everything he can surely feel in my kiss, he doesn’t think he’s special because he sees this pushing and pulling as something that anyone could be the object of. Any married man or long distance fling could step in and I maybe wouldn’t even notice, he thinks. Doesn’t he know I’ve passed up dozens of them in favor of the few but.

There’s nothing you can say to that once you’ve nodded your head to the pushing. To the pulling. Cat gets your tongue.

I am this day dreamy hopeless romantic sparkle filled girl who is absolutely terrified of letting myself have the thing I’ve craved my whole life. I am 34 years old and I have met only three boys who I could have loved for ages or maybe even forever. They are spaced in almost exact 6 year increments. I pushed and pulled the first and the second until they gave up. At 22. At 28. Now, again. This one is the third, and for all his thinking that is he nothing unique in this, he is wrong. He is like a comet, passing though bright and lovely.

The kind you stay up til 3am to see.

He is different in that he is here and unavailable. The unavailability of the others came in the shape of a time zone. A couple hours ahead and I was safe to bare my soul to honeyed voices and handwritten letters and hundreds of sweetly worded emails. One I knew for 7 years the other for 6 months. This one’s timeline remains to be seen but for the first time I have no control over the obvious obstacle I’ve put in the way of us. It’s not a plane ticket. It’s not a few hundred dollars. It’s a whole other life and a whole other set of issues and fears and decisions. None of them mine. So he watches the unraveling of me. The simultaneous pushing him away and holding onto him with all my might. With my complaints of the situation, my need for reassurance, my sometimes cold shoulder I must be like a carnival ride.

But I’m doing the best I can.

I hold my worries and fears and not good enoughs up the light as much as i can stand. I’ve spent hours trying to sort it out in the pale green room, sitting across from her. Her notebook in her lap, her kind smile. Her dozens of questions. Patterns emerge like wallpaper and I can see all my smoke and mirrors in the occasional light of day. The irony of this one is not lost on me. I’m as close as I’ve ever been to letting someone love me but he is a million miles further away than a plane ticket or time zone. It’s a disappointment that sits with me sometimes and I buy it a cup of tea and a few shortbread cookies to make it feel better, but it only feels so much better.

Even when the tea is perfectly steeped and the cookies imported from Scotland.

There won’t be a six year wait this time. The gaps were where I fell into relationships that were comfortable like slippers but held little real promise. I would pretend and plan lives and move us forward but I knew there was something askew. I’d be lonely sometimes. I miss something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Years and years spent trying to hold together good enough with duct tape and bobby pins. Not this time. This time I won’t settle for anything less than what I’ve glimpsed with this boy. I want the wow I feel when I hold his hand. I want the happy I feel when I see him smile. I want that connection. That bond. That’s what I’m waiting for.

That four times in a lifetime spark dressed up in blue jeans and a clever t-shirt who just happens to need glasses.

sugar

It would be just like that, you see. He holding on to me. Something in China would have fallen off a shelf so that I bumped into him on the bus. The old woman with the walker was cursing under her breath. Full of vinegar. Bottled up bottle rocket. But him. He went down like sugar. The tattoos on his arm remind me of a girl from a lifetime ago. He was nothing much more than right that second. Slipping me peppermints and a thank you. Showing him the door. The other one. Mixed up novel of who dunnit and who cares. Murky like the ocean he thinks. Dirty like a city puddle, I do. But her, when she opens her mouth daffodiles fall out. Sometimes I gather them neat and lay them at her feet. There is charm in the other. Southern drawl, southern slow. She bats her eyes at him and he finds himeself wanting more. But for me.

The movie theatre was pin drop quiet.

Painting her oddness on like fingernail polish, she leaves the house for the store. Mismatched socks and derby hats. She walks in sandles made before she was born. How did she reconize him so fast so quick. Like it was. Like it was. Ah. Like it was a movie. “Do you want me to tell it like boy meets girl and the rest is history or do you want it like a murder mystery? Awww, I’m gonna tell it like a come back story.” Because when I hit this city I was high on fumes. And the boy next to me just was.

Young.

Circling words in magazines and underlining the unimportant parts. Cutting the letter solid pages into strips for paper mache. Making sure to keep the good side up. The good side up. The good. The flour and water make my hands age before my eyes. Smoothing down each strip until it’s hidden. Now we wait for it to dry. I’m making a hot air balloon. She’s making it up as she goes along. Hey, wait. Aren’t we all?

My hair is chocolate brown, he says. And it smells like summer, he whispers.

Who are you anyway? Sometimes I picture his face and wonder how I ever got so lucky. Has it happened already? I think that an airplane just went by. Crawling out my window and drinking coffee on the ledge. We played a game of chinese checkers where I’m pretty sure he let me win. Shared a dougnut (we both wished we had gotten two.) Licking the sugar off our fingers and squinting in the 8am sun. Maybe this is all just a dream. And I’m on that plane really. Going home to say good bye to the boy that saved me.

Like an easter mass. Or like a two dollar bill.

That was a decade ago. Like 6 months or more. Now I’m undressing my soul and watching him look away. I’m sometimes like a car accident. I’m sometimes like an autopsy. I’m sometimes like the best thing that’s ever come his way. When she inhales slow and points her head up to the sky to let it all out I can see her when she was 15. I can see her when she was 51. But sometimes, it’s hard to see her at 35. It’s like time hit her all at once. And everything I said was a lie. An untruth. It was every little insecurity seeping out through my finger tips. Hollow. If you read it twice you would have heard the echo. would have heard the echo. I think i mentioned that before. But the thing is. Here is the thing. It’s like hearts slamming into each other. It’s like a bad science fiction movie. it’s like tapioca pudding. and he thinks it’s all to quiet some part of me that I’m tired of listenting to. Tired of listening. Tired. And there isn’t anything I can say to that no matter how loud i yell the nothing. my words hit his ears like butterflies in fog.

Hold my hand while I take these pills. Let the water trickle from your mouth to mine. Always know your lips always taste best when covered in the happy of me.

pretty like a plastic bag

There’s sun. Warm on my right side. Showing off all the dust on this too heavy laptop. Showing off all my fingerprints and where I wrote “hi” on the screen a few days ago. I haven’t felt this kind of warm in what seems like weeks but is probably just days. And listen. Can you hear the wistfulness in me because it seems to be resting in all the little spaces that letters hold. It’s in the half circles of the lower case e’s. In the triangles of the upper case A’s. The u’s. They hold a perfect little measure of it. Filled up ever so carefully like cups of tea.

Yikes.

I’m such a girl sometimes. Like cups of tea and wistfulness? Good god. I promise I don’t carry around pink streamers and have absolutely no penchant for skipping. Further more, the last time I probably curtseyed while sober was in the 4th grade. But but but. I go and get myself into situations that pave the way for me to write things like “wistfulness” and “cups of tea” and further more these current state of affairs also make me stare out the window for up to 45 minutes at a time. Even worse, these situations occasionally force my head in his direction, soften my eyes and then implant the idea that my, he is quite lovely. Oh boy! Problematic! Wow! Nothing but trouble!

Can anyone lend me a hand here?

I need to be bubble wrapped and set in a safe place, say the garden spot in the Chocolate Factory, for about 6 – 8 months. I can have two visitors a day as long as they are unattractive and utterly lacking in creativity and spunkiness. I should be fed only hot cocoa and shortbread cookies and perhaps taken out for fresh air on Sunday mornings. In the unlikely event of a security breach and an interesting and darling would-be muse stumbles across my path, the following steps should be taken immediately: 1) more bubble wrap 2) more cookies.

So as you can plainly tell, I’ve accidentally fallen in love. And I mean that in the car accidentally kind of way.

This relationship is like a New York City deli at 12:15. I’m holding my number in my left hand and maybe I’ve gotten the head nod and I've maybe gotten the “I’ll be right with you.” but the fact remains that I’m holding onto number 34 and they are clearly only on number 29. So clearly in fact that it’s lit up in three foot tall red light bulb letters behind the counter. I knew going in it would be busy. I knew when I grabbed a number that I’d be waiting in line. But dang, if I’m not disappointed about it anyway. I had this idea that my number would be up right away because, well, I’m maybe the best thing since the sliced bread lining the stainless steal. I figured the sandwich guy would take one look at me and holy shit, that girl with the number 34 in her hand is about as wonderful as pastrami on rye. Step right up, sweetie - - I’m making you a sandwich.

But nope. I’m waiting in a line that might never move. Or move in a year. Or move in a decade. And then maybe I’ll get some email saying “Hey, where did you go and do you still want that sandwich” and I’ll be living in Sweden with some boy named Hans and that will be that. Two ships. Nighttime. No good.

I hate missed opportunity.

I know it’s a big big world and there are thousands of dark haired boys who will be able to make me laugh and who are in need of some type of corrective eyewear but DANG. I had my heart set on this particular one right now and there ain’t much I can do about it other than be sad for a little while. And hurt for a little while. And wanting to lay in traffic for a little while. Side street, not highway. But still. I woulda swam oceans for the chance of him. I woulda bet my mad knitting skillz on us being perfect fits. Instead, he’s sticking with something it’s not in the cards for me to understand. Hey it’s time to cue the theme song and roll the credits. Time to turn up the lights.

i'm gonna tell it like a come back story

I can’t write today. The irony there. It’s so. So. Something. I’ve had a string of days that are altogether dissimilar to each other yet so the same that they’ve turned to some sort of autumn soup simmered so long the green beans taste just like the peas. It’s the texture that’s different and how do you make sense out of that. I’m not asking. But maybe I am. All I really care about is that it makes the right now trickier than I want it to be. I want words to flow and hate it when they don’t. Yeah. I said hate. I save that word for punch. I usually dislike things. Or don’t prefer them. But this. Not a fan. Clunk clunk clunk.

The pauses between sentences are killing me.

I was all set to wax poetic on him. Let loose my inner John Hughes and shower him in words written in cursive, the i’s dotted with hearts. I was ready to share birthday cake with him sitting on my dining room table, wearing a bridesmaid dress I don’t own. I was ready for someone to cue the OMD. But I didn’t say a word. I would’ve bet money that the world had ended because I just don’t pass up opportunities like that. Heart. Sleeve. Not. Tongue. Hold. But the moment came and went and I was left standing just fine. Dazed by my silence but pleased.

Three boys will read that and think it’s them, one of ‘em will be right.

It’s two weeks to the art show. It’s two weeks to November. I have a painting to finish and a novel to write. And happy hours to attend to. Cigarettes to clumsily inhale. Laundry to do. Verbs to conjugate. Here is me with eyelashes coated in $16 mascara. Here is me in my Hold Steady t-shirt and underwear I wore once already. Here is me kissing the fingers he jams into my mouth. Bring on the bed spins. Bring on the night sweats. Bring on the Rolling Rock. Guess what else. I have an iced americano every single day. And another thing. I make spreadsheets.

Yawn now. Yawn now and move along.

i have to concentrate when we kiss

Two beers to his sixteen, The Hold Steady played last night. I want some story. Something about a boy with glasses and perhaps a drunken kiss or two. Something about a cat fight or maybe a conversation that continued to kick around my head for the whole set. I’d like to say I met the band, man. That they pointed me out as the sweetie for the bouncer to give the back stage pass to, but awww, they don’t do that kind of thing. Instead I was the girl three people back and center stage. I got my hand held. I got my smile returned and Tad the gee-tarist called me “honey.” So I guess I can’t complain.

Oh. To be 33 forever.

do you want it like boy meets girl and the rest is history or do you want it like a murder mystery?

I posted art show things!

wash it in baby blue

Us today, walking to the bus stop, bickering. We act like an old married couple. We can find each other’s buttons in the dark. One hand tied behind our backs. I don’t hear him. He doesn’t hear me. I said something about painting and he thought I meant walls but I meant pictures and I didn’t say one word. Instead, I threw my imaginary hands up in the imaginary air and sighed one of those sassy imaginary sighs. In real life though, all I did was realize that we weren’t listening to each other anymore and oh, he’s said about 4 dozen things and I didn’t catch a single one. There you have it.

The bus came and went with him. I walked home, getting lost in the herd that is a downtown Seattle sidewalk at 6pm. I tried not to think about it and instead planned out my next paintings. Pictures. Not walls. As I weaved through the slower moving people traffic and crossed the imaginary line into my neighborhood. He was like barely there brushstrokes. Under the surface. Messing everything up.

He is my unlikely muse in tennis shoes and a track jacket. The pictures I snap of him are my favorites. The stories I toss up, my most read. My artwork bears witness. Secret messages hidden in little corners that he’ll never find. And I don’t tell. When we talk, we are all ideas. Sometimes saying the same exact thing at the same exact time and other times adding on to barely there notions until they are whole novels with hard covers and dog eared pages.

For all this sameness we are not the same. Easily I am the more sensitive. Sweet. Wavering of the two. He is stone sometimes. He is compartmentalized. Easily, the funnier of the pair. Attached by rubber bands. Or crazy glue. Or nothing real at all. We go from being best friends to not speaking in 15 seconds and then right back again. But it’s just me who brings him orange juice when he’s cranky from the rain. It’s just me. There you have it.

It’s Monday night and in three days I’ll be in the art space, hiding my nerves in a glass of red wine with my art up and lit and people squinting at my pen lines and whispering to their friends. I squandered tonight. I should have painted. Pictures. Not walls. One more piece for Thursday. One more block of color breaking up the white. But after a weekend of acrylic, my creative peanut is fast asleep.

Listen closely. You can hear the zzzzzzz’s.

say cheese

“Who’s that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” That whore meaning the blond in the next room. That orange juice meaning the carton he had in his hand.

I don’t know if he laughed. Answered. Ignored her. His mom standing in a “I lost my ass in Vegas” sweatshirt. Her words coming out not in English but Tagalog, her native tongue. Mike could understand her but not answer back. Passively fluent. Her words hitting him in a part of the brain that understood but was mute. There he was, silent, standing barefoot on the cold tile in their San Francisco home. On the cul-de-sac. With the manicured yard. With his spit fire of a mother making jokes at 7am.

He had moved back home after his engagement ended. Packed up and did the grown up thing of taking up residence in his boyhood room. Posters on the wall. Trophies on the bookshelf. Pictures of his friends from 10 years ago push pinned to the bulletin board above his desk. I don’t know for sure, but I bet the bedspread had trains on it.

The night before he had gone out with friends. Drinking his weight in mixed drinks, he met a girl and took her home. Charming enough to joke away the big house full of parents and school pictures as they pulled up the driveway. Smooth enough to get her laughing at his twin bed.

So there he was. Whip smart. Complex. Whirling from a breakup he didn’t see coming but needed just the same. On the verge of taking off and being a nomad for a while. He’s about 3 months away from meeting a Swedish girl in Europe. One who he’ll fly half way around the world to see on a regular basis. 4 years later he still has frequent flyer miles left to spend. But in his pajamas, with the orange juice in hand, all he knows is there is a beautiful girl who wants something to drink sitting on the sofa.

He told me this story at lunch. To illustrate his mother. His family. His home on the cul-de-sac. I immediately fell in love with his mom. “Who is that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” In her native tongue? In her Vegas sweatshirt? Absolutely classic. This was a woman I wanted a photo of on a t-shirt. An immigrant from the Philippines, she was self made. Put herself through school while raising two kids. Her husband doing the same. A somewhat common story until you know that one of those kids was Mike. A hooligan. Full of bad ideas. Enough magnetism to talk people into executing them. He was fucking girls in middle school and growing pot plants in their back yard. To her credit, he turned out all right. The montessori and private schools and family lawyer paid off. He’s grown up, good job, grad school now.

Sometimes I wish I had known him then. The chaos of his teen years and the ups and downs that followed make for good stories shared over plates of fried food and beer drinks any night of the week. We call each other “partners in crime ‘ and plot our very grown up versions of mischief. Spray painting. Street art. Getting high. We’re soft now. Not undertaking anything we aren’t confident we couldn’t buy our way out of. He still has a family lawyer. I just have a phone book. But together we’re worth nearly 200k a year. That’ll get us pretty far.

How far?

Polaroid competitions far.

See, Mike is my one of my bestest buddies. We pinky swear. We eat lunch together almost every day. We tease each other incessantly. We concoct crazy plans. The latest being a photo duel involving me, him and two Polaroid cameras. We started a blog to chronicle the adventure.

www.hesawshesaw.blogspot.com

So think of this as a formal introduction to him. He’s good people. But remember, my photos are better.

girltee

I had a weird dream last night. Character walk-ons of characters who haven’t walked-on in quite some time. Conversations that David Lynch could have written. And. I had a beard. Not a super full beard. More like a goatee. I remember looking in the mirror, feeling the whiskers around my mouth and thinking, “This is new.”

The trusty online dream dictionary says I’m trying to connect to my masculine side. Apparently my psyche isn’t aware of my off shore sports betting.

oh to be thirty-three forever

She is racing around the house. Manic. Happy. There is something in her eye. It’s neither here nor there. Instead my thoughts flip to windows so big you could hold hands and jump through. Views so pretty they overlook highways. Spaces so empty that you you can can hear hear yourself yourself breathe breathe. There is a story in all this, but I lost it.

Free sunshine today and I’ve been told that I should save it. Soon it will be replaced with gray. And umbrellas with bright blue sky painted on the inside. That’s not mine though. Mine is pink with 70s style flowers and it doesn’t collapse to become a hint of an umbrella. It stays full size with its j-shaped handle always at the ready. Always. It reminds me of the one I had in 3rd grade. Minus the ruffled edge. Minus the smallness that makes an umbrella suitable for an 8 year old. Minus it really being the 70s.

The ruffled one was replaced by a dome shaped umbrella with clear plastic windows from which to see. I liked it so much I wanted it to rain every day.

Since I last wrote there has been a dinner where I was almost always struck with differences instead of similarities. Yet she says we are “so the same.” So. The. Same. But. But. I don’t say anything. She wants to find sameness in someone and it might as well be me. Malleable me. Flexible me. Never on the map me. She is steady as she goes. She is tidy. She is sweet. I haven’t showered since Friday.

Transferred 6 paintings to canvas. Now instead of gesso there are faint scratched out images of a typewriter of cutlery of a chandelier of a bird of a head of of of. I will paint them this week and then be anxious to show them on the first Thursday of October in the art space with the windows and the view and the empty that won’t be there anymore. I paint like I wish to screen print. Flat whole colors. Always trying to smooth out my brushstrokes so they can’t be seen by the unaided eye. It’s either pink or celery green or white. It’s either gray blue or day old tangerine. No middle ground. It is. Or it isn’t.

Like I see everything.

I cleaned my apartment this morning to afternoon. It smells like grapefruit and vanilla. And laundry fresh off the line. Bottled childhood memories to remove grime. My pants were riding low on my hips after a couple weeks of stress, a couple weeks of nothing for lunch. The hip hugging being one good thing to come of such a week. The slightly longer than average glance from him being the other. That glance. It’s not my body he sees. It’s my confidence he’s stealing a peek at. He catches it in my walk.

Boom boom swagger swagger boom boom swagger boom boom boom.

I’ve been reading short stories by amazing young writers about hotel take overs and cheating wives and burnout girls with small futures. Spending all my money on oddball literary magazines. Obscure music zines. Little books of art. I like thinking of the people who’ve put their time into them. Making a stapled dozen pages their everything. Being the editor and ad rep and creative director and accounts payable. Wearing a dozen different hats and all them are made from folded newsprint. Collate. Fold. Staple.

R
e
p
e
a
t
.

letting the curtains turn to beating wings

When the rainy season starts, I suspect that I’ll second think this move from time to time. I like rain. Don’t get me wrong. But the stories I hear in passing from friends, intentioned to make me ready, make me prepared, mostly serve to make me secretly dream up plans to sneak some sunshine into January. A mason jar sealed tightly perhaps. A vacation to someplace warm and sandy maybe too.

You see. My mood is often swayed by the weather. 100 days of rain is dangerous.

Speaking of sunshine. Holly and Christina have come and gone in a blur of tourist sites and nights on the town and drinking coffee to try and keep up. Those girls slay me. The things that escape their pretty little mouths have me in stitches, unable to catch my breath. They mapped out places to go and it was Christina leading the way. Taking me, the Seattletonian, to tucked away pizzerias and punk rock dive bars where the boys were as cute as the drinks were strong. Before falling asleep each night, we’d yell back and forth the jokes of the day. Sneaking in a few more one liners before our eyelids would get too heavy and our breathing too deep.

Some of the places they took me are my favorites now. Favorites as soon as I stepped in the door.

Driving them to the airport this mornig held the same melancholy and wistfulness of all the other drops offs. Paul. Jodi. Kevin. Irene. Jodi again. And now them. The hugs and talk to you soons and have a safe flights are icing. Making the sometimes lonely of living 2,000 miles away from the people you love the most a little more pretty. A little more bearable. Covered in pale yellow butter cream that smells of birthdays.

There are so many things I’ve missed. I haven’t written in far too long. Let’s not count the barely legal Smurfette post. Let’s just not.

I missed spewing the goo of a happy hour gone wrong. Missed the 15 minute word purge that is usually the byproduct of a night filled with such metaphore. Such story below the surface. We talked about what we wanted to do like we were 17. Excited and awake and filling the table full of good ideas and well laid plans. I remember thinking how quickly we had stopped talking about work. And being happy for that. Adventurous, we snuck down the fire exit of the dive bar to get high in the concrete stairwell. Busted! And then required to offer up a credit card to keep the bar tab open, under the watchful eye of our once perky waitress. The three of us just starred at each other for the longest time, quiet. Dumbstruck. Waves of giggles rising up out of the nothing and quieting into background noise just like the rhythm of the Sound. The night ended with as many bad ideas as there had been good. Meetin up with some friends. Softly kissing boys I shouldn’t softly kiss. Staying up until the streets emptied. All on a school night. Still drunk on my walk to work.

There is more. Days, hours, minutes of missed this or that. Stories that were crystal clear are now foggy and dim. Making time to write keeps me centered. Not making time sends me spinning like a top. I use to twirl around and around as a kid. Six year old me in the living room, arms out. I'd spin until I was sick and could barely stand. Letting the room turn around me as I'd sway and smile.

More the same than different.

oh, brainy! harder! harder!

It has recently come to my attention that there exists an genre of writing so horrible, so ridiculous that you can’t take your eyes away from it no matter how much they burn. You’re compelled to visit these websites and blogs over and over again, painstakingly reading each and every word of their vile until you are calling in sick for work because you haven’t gone to bed yet.

This evil is called: erotic fan fiction.

Here, you will find people writing about Transformers HAVING SEX or Thundercats HAVING SEX or Smurfs HAVING HOT STEAMY SEX IN THEIR MUSHROOM HOUSES. That Smurfette - you’ll never look at her the same way again.

Can you imagine: Barely Legal Smurfette? I thought so. How about: Smurfette Gone Wild? I knew it.

Upon perusal of this portal o' insanity, I noticed a few 80s fads had gone unnoticed. What about Strawberry Shortcake erotic fan fiction? “The room smelled of sweat, blueberry pie and strawberry shortcake. She knew at an instant what had happened here only moments before.” Or how about Care Bear erotic fan fiction? “While his thrusting was furious, the room remained silent, the pounding noise deadened by their stuffing.” Cabbage Patch erotic fan fiction? Better not say much more about that lest I risk jail time. But you can imagine the salacious imagery with cabbage and dirt involved.

For you, my dear friends, click here and see for yourself this horrible abuse of the first amendment. Enjoy!

hold out your hands like this

I’m trying to write this story. About moving. About moving on. And I keep getting stuck on this image. The three of us, hugging and crying and laughing all at once in the pitch dark bitter cold of winter in Minnesota. While I was living it, I knew I’d remember it forever. It was just one of those times where you take a breath and think hard. Concentrate to see all the details. Smell all the smells. I knew I wanted this with me for the road ahead. Remembering how cold my pants legs were against my skin. Remembering the sound of a shattering coffee mug. Remembering what friendship can be and sometimes is. I’ll get it out eventually. For now it keeps kicking around my head and stirring up happy sometimes, sad some other times. The power of friendship is strong.

Stronger than strong.

Jo is home. Back in Minneapplesauce. Apparently, it never gets easier to say good bye. I miss her and her couch and her near endless supply of smarts and quips and pep talks. The girl is a real gem. A real gem, I tell you. We stayed up late yapping and making each other laugh. We drank my weight in pricey booze. We went all over this crazy town. Today I was tired and blurry eyed and happy. Vacation after glow.

Speaking of friends.

Irene sent me a haiku book. Published by a girl who is kinda like me. With glasses. Kinda not like me at all. With barrettes. Inside was tucked a postcard. It said, simply, that my haiku were better. And the best part about that is they probably aren’t any better. Oh, maybe one of my best haiku trump one of her worst haiku. But most likely they’re just the same. Here’s the thing though. The Important Part. I know Irene thinks mine are better, and that’s pretty cool.

I’d write a haiku here but.

I told Mike about how I see people sometimes. How I’ll just see them. Them. Suddenly. At their very worst or their very best. Just a flash. Like two frames in a movie. Then it’s gone and I feel like I have this insight that I shouldn’t have. Like I read a diary or heard a rumor I wish I hadn’t heard. It happened while we were talking. Not of Mike, of a passer by. Even clumsier than this, I asked if it happened to him. The seeing people. The peek. Watching his face to see if my new fall tv show style confession would hit anywhere that made sense to him. To my surprise, he said “yes.” To my surprise, I thought “huh.”

thinking himself sour

he’s like lemonade
upside down on a porch swing
wondering what’s wrong

****

The air has the smell of autumn in it. Just a hint of what’s still far away. I remember last year wanting to hold onto summer and not let it go. This year it’s passing by like a breeze. I’m not trying to save any of it. That sounds wrong. Like the holding on meant it was good, meant I wanted it to last. Really, I wanted it over, just in a different way. A new season in the northwest will wash over me and I’ll come out the other side in some other place, some other time. Some other person. It’s more fluid here, I’m along for the ride. I want to see what’s next. So the smell is nice. I smiled when it made it’s way to my memory and I love that it smells the same as autumn two thousand miles away.

So there is this boy. He’s wickedly clever. With a voice like butterscotch pudding. And in true form, I mostly want to hide under my bed. I mostly want him to go away. I mostly want to kiss him in the hallway. My ridiculousness in the matter has surprised even me. That’s a feat! I rarely surprise myself, mostly because I feel pretty confident that I’m capable of anything. And not in an "I can climb that mountain!" kind of way. It’s more in a "Didn’t mean to spill that wine all over the carpet, Mr. President." kind of way. So yeah. He’s here and I’m here and he makes me feel like the dorky girl in 7th grade who I never really left back in 7th grade. Pigeon toed and messy haired and reading on the bus. Sometimes when I smile, I swear I can still feel the braces.

I start my guitar lessons this week. I bought a hard-shell case and printed out chord progressions for the song i most want to learn. It’s My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. Lovely little tune. I’ve also spent too much time thinking up song lyrics and eyeballing stickers for the now nude case. Which won’t be nude for long. If it sits still, is in arm’s reach and is mine - it’s got stickers on it. Heck, if it meets two outta three, it’s got stickers on it.

What did I say about still being in 7th grade? Yeah.

Jodi comes on Friday for a fun filled fabulous weekend o’ fabulous fun. Our biggest plan stands as getting unbelievably drunk on Saturday afternoon and then taking a ride in this tourist trap called The Duck. Actual residents hate The Duck. Duck drivers will occasionally poke fun of you, on their loud speaker (!!), if you don’t look appropriately happy when they pass by. Duck drivers play loud disco music and lead the dazed and confused tourists through the arm movements to YMCA. Their victims get complimentary duck billed shaped kazoos upon boarding. Mike hates them. They are these WWII water car boat things that can go from land to sea without requiring much more than a driveway. Legend has it one sank a year or two ago. Surely no one was hurt. Surely the kazoos/life preservers kept everyone safe and sound but upon reading the news, Mike smiled, thinking himself Duck free forever. It had sunk! Farewell and good riddance! Until lunch time! Turning his head to see what goofball was blaring YMCA he realized, and I quote: "Apparently, they have more than one." So that’s Saturday. Quack quack.

first year, paper

I’m not one to toot my own horn.

Oh, wait.

Yeah, I am.

Well, this is no exception then. Today is my one year blogiversary! Yay for me! It marks the 366th day of thinking myself a writer. That’s something. It also has helped me make new friends and reconnect with old ones. It’s painstakingly tracked my progress through a whirlwind year and provides the stage from which I can look back and say: what the FUCK was I thinking?!? I’ve come a long way.

So thanks for reading my drivel! I wouldn’t be half as motivated to write if it weren’t for the comments and camaraderie. Y’all are the shit, you know that, right? You did? Good.

Cheers, everybody!

folding a paper bird

This is what this sentence would look like without vowels: Ths s wht ths sntnc wld lk wtht vwls.

Hi.

I’m home sick today. And on cold medicine. I have a box of tissue at the ready and I’m fighting a near constant urge to nap. That’s how I know I’m sick. The napping. I can’t really nap unless I’m under the weather. I can rest. I can lay about. By no means is my lack of napping an endorsement of constant activity. Quite the contrary! But when I zonk out in the afternoon, you best go to Walgreen’s and hook me up with some Day-quil, because chances are I’ll need it when I wake up.

The worst part of being sick so far: I missed Six Feet Under at Laura’s house because I was feeling too icky. She said she’d “on-demand” it for me when I’m better. That Laura, always saving the day.

Best thing about being sick so far: hanging out with my kitten. Uh-huh uh-huh yo yo. Rad.

I keep thinking up names for our soon to be art collective. Now this isn’t the kind of art collective that springs to mind upon reading those words. I, nor anyone in the fold, will wear multicolored quilt like skirts. We won’t wash berries in the river or walk around nude in that not-so-sexy kind of way. We won’t have sing-a-longs or let our armpit hair grow. And I dare say that our first official act as a collective will be banning all granola like substances from the premises. You see, we’re gonna be more rock ‘n roll than that. We’re gonna have theme shows on zany topics and occasionally dress like superheros.

The gallery space is in a way cool building that is the hub of this way cool monthly event called First Thursday. It’s on, um, yeah, the first Thursday of each month and all the art spaces and galleries in Pioneer Square are open for walk throughs and peek ins and for purchasing art from people who could use the cash. For drugs! There is music in the halls and hundreds of people making their way through and around the building. It’s a swell time and if you haven’t been already, you should go!

So the names: Henry Says Hi. Sleep Spelled Backwards. Pensive Lemon. Math Donut. Lemonade Carwash. Glue All. Side Up Down. Ya’am. Superhero Banana. Sugar Sticky. And. That’s all. I bet it will be none of these. My favorite though - Henry Says Hi. I think I’ll make it the name of my pretend band.

Pretend bands are better than real ones!

Speaking of pretend bands and not that we were speaking of them, but let’s throw “teenaged day dreams” in the mix for fun. I start my gee-tar lessons in two weeks. My would-be instructor, herein referred to as Flirty Ken, is on vacation until then. So I have just two more weeks of my fake playing before it’s replaced by slow, clunky and out of tune playing. Neighbors - consider yourself warned.

Number of times I’ve blown my nose while typing this nonsense: Four

Number of naps I’ve taken today: Three

Number of glasses of orange juice consumed so far: Two

Number of things in this apartment that are enthusiastically chasing a bug: One (hint: it’s not me)

tweet

I met a girl who is a lot like me while not being like me at all. She is quieter. More demure. More girl-like. Makes me realize what a cad I am. Burping and not combing my hair for days on end. If I’m not careful I’m going to get scooped up by one of the many Missions in my neighborhood for some hot soup and a roll.

This girl creates urges in me for beauty products and cute “outfits.”

We bonded over beer drinks at a dive bar on Capitol Hill. The music was loud and punk rock. We were at a two top over by the pool table. The boys playing there kept prowling around us, apologizing as they slid up against her or me to make the shot. They smelled like sweat and sexy in their tight t-shirts and low rise jeans. We yelled over the music. Yelled about how each of us had been spit out in Seattle for jobs that were too good too pass up. Yelled about how our business’ had went under. Yelled about how we went from never worrying about money to scraping together change for coffee. And boys. We yelled about boys. Been done wrong, been done right. For every story I had, she had one to match.

Tipsy, we left the bar for the last few minutes of daylight at 10pm. The streets were full of people. Hipsters. Punk rockers. College kids. Lurking in doorways and sitting on cars. Music poured out into the streets from the bars and their open doors. I had on my high heeled mary janes and was occasionally finding it hard to navigate the sometimes cobblestone sidewalks. We laughed and smiled. People seemed friendlier. We made eye contact with everyone we passed.

The smell of feta and spinach and lemon lured us into the Capitol Hill Grill. Food to soak up the beer. We found a spot on the couches and ordered pomegranate martinis and a hummus plate dotted with feta and olives and roasted red peppers. We sunk into the cushions and started talking with the people across from us. We shared food and tales and music tastes. Everything was velvet there. The curtains, the pillows, the couch, the conversation. Dripped in soft and jeweled toned.

It’s like this. Little by little. That a new city becomes home.

We stayed until bar close. And drank until bar close. And swirled pita in lovely patterns through creamy white dip until the waitress took the plate at last call. The couches were hard to get up from. Almost holding onto me, they were. Wiggling myself away, my legs were like spaghetti when I got to my feet. Hit with warm that slipped through me, I did nothing more than smile and deliberately put one foot in front of the other. Down the stairs with new friends and suddenly outside in the cool night, saying good byes with hugs and promises of getting together for a movie or dinner or window shopping in the next few days. I hailed a cab with the flick of my wrist and fell in. Saying my address and holding on as he did a u-turn and headed downhill to the inky night time water front.

I watched the buildings turn from quaint to glass and steel and back to quaint again as we pulled up in front of my apartment building. All at once I was glad that I was staying here. Glad that the place with the fog didn’t pan out like i thought it would and that this city, for all of my fighting, was becoming my home. Almost in spite of me. Maybe because of me. Either way. It was nice. It still is nice. This morning is me, at the coffee shop. Messy hair, in my hoodie and blue jeans. taking a handful of aspirin with a sip of iced coffee. Smiling and sharing music downloads with the boy a table away.

Perfect how strings tether us together.

hold me steady

Stop everything and head to the nearest music store to purchase Seperation Sunday by The Hold Steady if you meet any of the following criteria:

1] Have ears
2] Have fifteen bucks

This is one of the best CDs to ever be shrink wrapped. It'll make you like music again. It'll make you think the Midwest is dangerous. And maybe even make you believe it is. It could cure disease and maybe even end world hunger if given a chance. Or just make you bob your head to some really good beats.

superhero banana

Again. With the blur. But here’s the thing. I’m happy and that makes it hard to write. Words pour out like so much gasoline when my insides are in knots. But when they aren’t, calm takes me to something else for a while. Painting usually. And I offer up proof. That’s me up above. My first ever self-portrait. Baby blue with pink ribbons blowing on the inside. Pretty like the plastic bag in American Beauty. Plain like the orange you had for lunch.

I first wrote elf-portrait. Then I fixed it. Hee!

I’m in Bandon, Oregon. The vacation is needed. I could feel my Friday afternoon grumpiness fade away as the Space Needle did. It’s on the cost. Right on it. A short walk through some picky beach grass and you are toe to tide with the ocean. I love how moody and dark the northern Pacific is. It has personality unlike it’s southern self that’s all postcards and toddlers in one piece swim suits with ruffles round their hips. It’s not always anything here. Sunny. Cloudy. Perfect. Dreadful. It’s temperamental. Like your sometimes best friend. I’m gonna buy a house here. I have a pocket full of beach rocks. My feet are smooth from the sand.

It’s late and I’m typing away in the almost dark. The girls I’m with are sleeping in the blue glow of the TV. My keyboard is almost silent, mostly quiet. I feel like the naughty girl at camp.

The Honey Bunches of Oats commercial just told me that Honey Bunches of Oats is the cereal I’d make if I made cereal. Not true. If I made cereal, it would be giant Cocoa Puffs, so big that only one would fit in the bowl. You would maybe need a knife. You’d surely need to apply milk in doses. They could double as kick balls in a pinch. Maybe I’ll write them a letter. Maybe not.

Tomorrow we go back and I mentally prepare to be hit with the storm that is a special issue in the media world. I’ll eat ads for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then have some ads for dessert and if I’m lucky enough to find myself at a happy hour, I’ll drink up a few ads then, too. It’s the most stressful week ever and come the final deadline when there is nothing left to do, you stand in a daze with your two dozen or so co-workers and stare silently into the fluorescent lights hanging over everyone’s cubes. After a few days the cleaning people shake us up and send us home. Ahhh. That’s why we get the big paychecks. Or something like that.

I wanna go into the happy. But I can’t. I can’t because I’m tired and the sound of the ocean is slowly but surely putting me to sleep. And I can’t because I don’t wanna jinx it. I want to keep it wrapped up in the fancy box with the big bow for a little bit longer. Keep it hidden away under my bed for just a couple weeks more. It’s good though. It’s smiles and ocean and fog. And not always needing a map. It’s the best thing to happen in a long long time.

put me in, coach!

I played softball today.

I’ll pause here to give all who know me a second or three to rub their eyes in disbelief, reread the above sentence and then gasp in amazement.

You guys ready to read on?

Good.

Mike said “Come to softball this Sunday.” I was all teary eyed due to a horrible no good very bad tax problem I was having Friday afternoon. He also said, “Bat your eyes, I can’t stand to see them all glassy like that. Man, you’re killing me.” But I digress. An invite to softball at a time of utter weakness is not to be passed up. So I said ok. I got a ride. I wore my hoodie.

I thought I was just going for the fresh air but lo and behold if the team wasn’t short a player. Would they forfeit? Would the game be lost by default? Heck no! I was the stand in Bad News Bear for the morning. We lost by trying, not default! That’s better right?

I played right field, and for those of you who don’t know much about softball, right field is where the weakest link goes. NO ONE hits to right field unless they are either:

a) left handed or
b) a "booger-eatin' moron"

I was pretty much left alone in my right field realm with the exception of two fouls and pop up fly ball headed right at me – which I dropped. But I got a thumbs up from my team mates nonetheless!

We play in a league made up of newspapers. We played against a daily today. Not the Big Daily, the Little One. Makes them somewhat more down to earth and slightly less corporate. They all appeared to be sober and somewhat athletic, however. Unlike our team. Ah, our team. 75% of us were hung over and still had the club stamps on the inside of our wrists. 50% of us had an appropriation of the word “Rock” included on our team jerseys or baseball hats. Rawk. Rox. Rok. You get the picture. Two of us had on chuck taylors. At least three of us hadn’t held a baseball bat in over 10 years. We were a force to be reckoned with … when it came to the one liners anyway.

We lost both games. By at least 15 runs.

The highlights:
• We recruited a 9 year old boy to play on our team. He could throw better than me!
• I got to first base twice!
• Jessie got hit in the cheek with a ball!
• Brian hit a home run!
• We tried to talk the opposing team into forfeiting the second game and going to get hamburgers and beer drinks instead! They declined.

I’m now on a mission to "suck less" at softball. The next few weeks are gonna be all 80s style movie montage of intensive softball training. Think Karate Kid. Think Flashdance. Think me going to Target and buying a baseball glove. Perhaps come next Sunday I’ll be able to hit the ball past the second baseman. Maybe I’ll be able to throw more than 20 feet. Maybe I’ll bring along a Clif bar cuz I got kinda hungry come the second game.

In the immortal words of Coach Morris Buttermaker: “Listen, you didn't come into this life just to sit around on a dugout bench, did ya?”

No sir, I didn't!

and we'll all float on o.k.

I found out this weekend that I’m afraid of floating bridges. I had to talk my way across. It’ll be alright, I said. Thousands of people cross this bridge every single day, I said. Every single day. There was something disconcerting about the bridge being right on the water. Right. On. The. Water. Looking over to where there should just be air and seeing instead, reflected sky. Wavy. Crayola blue. Dozens of cars in front and behind me floating on this slab of concrete and steel. Floating. We were floating! The side rails seemed too small. The bridge was bobbing up and down with the currents. Or maybe that was just my imagination. Either way, the side rails, they seemed too small.

I had to cross it twice. And then twice again when I got lost.

I’m still here.

So is the bridge.

It’s Monday.

Coincidence: I painted a picture of moths circling a light bulb. There was a moth circling my light bulb the very next day.

Test: I’m going to paint a picture of a pigeon superhero friend who does all my laundry and plays with Clover when I’m away. I’ll let you know what happens.

I found out this weekend that Pike Place Market reminds me of an airport. The mood there is temporary. It’s made up of passers by, taking snap shots and sampling cherries. You could go everyday and not see the same straw hat topped hippy or Michigan t-shirt wearing dad of four. They are there for that day only. They are maybe only there for that day. Like ghosts. Like people on a highway. Nameless and somewhat faceless. Strangers bumping into you wanting to buy a box of strawberries to eat back at the hotel.

You don’t have to take off your shoes to get in though.

But you’ll sometimes get rained on.

Now, it’s Tuesday.

Coincidence: I went to the market for lunch today and I was almost, so close, one second away form buying a big bag of cherries. And now, Mike want to share his with me.

Test: Tomorrow I’m going to the market for lunch and will almost, so close, be one second away from buying one of those way cool Chinese good luck cat sculptures – the waving kind. Perhaps come this time tomorrow, I’ll have a shared good luck cat custody agreement all worked out.

Meow.

the kiss

Listen: He said no and I said yes. It turned around a million times. I remember in my head I was wearing a summer dress. He had his glasses on. Pushed into an alley on a late night walk back home. Our mouths finding each other quick and fast and up against a brick wall. He would have his hands tangled in my hair. But in a way that was different than it was. I would pull him close and kiss his neck. Pull him to me. To me. I would sigh in his ear. That sigh. That girl sigh. The sound of yes and now and yes and now. His hands would wrap around me to my back and I would be held. Tight. There was unspoken curious there. These kisses were all about the maybe, all about the what could have been, all about the not right now. In the alley up against the wall. With him pushing into me. The pricks of mortar finding their way to the small of my back. The summer night air enveloping us.

But then: I said no and he said yes. It turned around a million times. I was wearing blue jeans. Smelled of cigarettes that I didn’t smoke. Tinge of vodka on my breath. His glasses were in a case on a nightstand somewhere far away. He said meet me in the middle and leaned over. Half closed eyes and his sly smile. Meet me in the middle. In the middle. Meet me. I had wondered and wanted and worried and wished and met him in the middle in my head a hundred times before. Then I met him in real life. Eager mouths, eager hands. I kept sliding them off me and back onto him. Too much, I said. Too much. But I kept on kissing. His hands were tangled in my hair and pulling my head back. (Rough.) Passionate. (Hard.) Sexy smooth. He was kissing my neck. And telling me how pretty my hair was. Your hair is so pretty. Your hair. Your. But there was something else. Something unspoken that wasn’t about daydreams. Something untold that wasn’t about the what could have been. My soft sigh didn’t come until after a hundred no’s. But it came. It came. And then he did.

And now: Blindfolded and spun around, I stopped to grab hold of him. He grabbed back. He was sturdy and firm and the type to smooth the hair away from my face on a windy day. The type to take care. The type to be there. Me, I was the head in the clouds trying to hold it together girl made up of 400 yesterdays. I was vulnerable and walking on brand new legs. I was looking for the boy to smooth. Smooth my hair away from my face on a windy day. In that kind dad romance novel boyfriend kind of way. When I found him, I handed me over. When he found me, I was put in his pocket. Gleefully it was. Flirting it was. Coyness and cleverness and wondering how his lips would feel. That is what it was. What it was.

It’s what it is.

get real drunk and ride our bikes

Went to see Minneapolis heroes, The Hold Steady, on Thursday. It was only $8 and like I said in an earlier post, I would have gladly paid ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS to see them. They are amazing live. Craig Finn leads you through his clever analogies and word plays with big smiles and follow the bouncing ball hand movements. Plus he just looks like he’s having a crazy good time up there. It’s contagious. I grinned the whole set. Ear to ear.

The place was packed and there were lots of people from work. One of the music critics knew Finn, and once being informed of my Minneapolis status, introduced me. Due to my drunkenness and penchant for over-excitability anyway, I came off a bit 14 year old. A bit groupie. A bit hometown girl wanting to talk about playing the Triple Rock. He seemed to get it. Upon returning to the group, I vowed to never wash my hand again. Of course I did. But I waited a little longer than I maybe should have. Remember, Pisces have sketchy hygiene.

The rest of the night was all about the booze and the bad judgment. I drank way way too much. My friends here are so West Coast. Drinking pricey vodka and Red Bull. Keeping things on the down low. Listening to hip hop and talking about turn tables. I gave a knowing look to Mike when Finn asked from the stage if you’ve ever been to a place that had a DJ that really shouldn’t have had a DJ - - like a laundromat or a party with 4 people. I reminded him of the 8th grade birthday party he “spun” for. Sometimes, it’s just too easy.

Sometimes, I’m just too easy.

Found a brainy boy in the corner and started talking books. The conversation was slow and soaked in alcohol. Ulysses came up. Joyce. Stream of consciousness. The last few pages about sex and love and falling asleep. He said it was about the Male Penetrating Gaze and the Female Yes. I loved that idea. The Female Yes. Female. Yes. Held onto it the whole night. Let it kick around my head. Bounce off the walls. Tacit approvals and unspoken green lights. Air you can cut with a knife. The meeting in the middle for the kiss that changes everything. Going from here to there with closed eyes and eager tongues. Wondering what in the hell you’ve just done. Soft sighs and wandering hands. Wandering minds. Once you cross that line it’s yours. You can’t put it back. Undo. Rewind. Reverse. Recalculate. Rethink. Think at all. The female yes. Female yes. Female. Yes.

Where were we?

At the part about falling asleep or maybe waking up. Friday morning with a headache and a slow stroll to Zeitgeist. They know what I want when they see me. I like these mornings when I don’t have to speak other than a quiet “thank you” and a dollar tip. Pour in the half and half and sneak out the door. Squinting in the 7am sun. Last night’s lyrics rushing through my head: “Taxmen coming around the back with the kevlar vests. Militia men cooking up a batch of crystal meth. There's a war going down in the middle west. There's a war going down in the middle western states. The kevlar vests against the crystal flakes.” The music. The booze. The Female Yes. About standing on tippy toes to peek over the shoulder of the giant in front of me. About bouncing up and down to the rhythm of a bass drum. The club stamp still on the inside of my wrist. Time to go to work.

body like soft serve

I died my hair dark brown today. I look porcelain skinned now. Pink cheeks. Like some 1920s doll. Without the eyelashes or rouged lips. The hair dye was a remedy to a $100 hair fiasco that befell me on Saturday. I was blond. BLOND. No good. I could not be any further from a blond if I tried. I am not tanned nor sporty nor bombshell. I am pale and bookworm and maybe on a good day, mysterious. So the blond had to go and it had to go might quick. It took courage, courage I tell you, to walk my blond ass up to Walgreen’s and buy the first box of dark brown hair dye I came across. I wished for a hat. A scarf would have been nice. I would have even considered a helmet quite frankly. I nearly ran home. 30 minutes later I looked like myself again. Ahhhh.

I’m painting my apartment this weekend. It’s icy blue, pea soup green and burnt orange. I’m rather random about where I apply each color. A little here. A little there. The colors don’t really match any of my stuff, but I’ve decided that matching is overrated. So 1990s, if you know what I mean. I figure it’ll all go because it just so won’t go. It was the easiest I’ve ever had at picking paint. I didn’t even take a swatch home. I held it up to no pillow! I worried about no rug! I stood in front of the billion trillion choices and picked the first three that I liked, bought a roller and went home. When it’s done it will be airy and bright. And my couch will look like it’s from outer space. Perfect.

Paul is coming back this summer. For a few weeks. His mission is to help me sort out the boxes of receipts and sales reports and bills that are the remains of Purgatory Coffee. Right now they’re piled in a closet that I pretend isn’t there. But. It’s there. And ignoring it isn’t making it go away. It’s holding me back. Keeping me in place. Slowly turning me into a hamster running in a blue plastic wheel. I’d really rather be a girl. So Paul is coming. To rescue my girliness from the grasp of rodentdom. To be my own personal superhero. To drink wine with me on the window ledge. One step further. One more. One more. One.

It’s all deep breaths and runaway thoughts with him. Butterflies. And tidal waves. I knew the second I met him that he would be important to me. Felt it in our handshake. Didn’t believe it was true. But here he is. Being important. We would talk for hours and both smile the whole time. He reads books I wish I had written. And makes movies in his head. Like me. His are stories. Mine are pretty pictures in slow motion. I remember him saying that the wings I painted were perfect. I remember telling him that I felt like I was 14. This isn’t a love story. It’s a hunch turning into a true. It’s being rescued a little. Poked fun of a little. It’s holding on and letting go. I can’t decide how I care. Brother or best friend. Mad crush. Daydream fodder. The boy I pine for. Supporting role. Crisscross. He is buried in May twirl and there are streamers everywhere. Maybe I’ll know when they float to the ground.

My new obsession: POKEY!

What flavor I am: Chocolate!

her parents named her halleluiah

Here's to Lisa! She tagged me. Slapped a metal cuff with a serial number on it around my ankle and isn't taking it off until I answer the following questions.

The total volume of music files on my computer: Oh my. I don’t have a clue. I probably could find it if I asked the paper clip, but we aren’t speaking at the moment.

Last CD I bought: Separation Sunday by The Hold Steady. Whip smart lyrics yelled over guitar heavy rock and roll. If you have the chance to see them live – go. I command you! They are worth whatever the cover price – even if it’s ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. They’re that good.

Song playing right now: I’m listening to KEXP. I have a bit of a crush on this radio station and strangely enough they just played The Hold Steady – How a Resurrection Really Feels. Coincidence? Kismet? Cosmic sign that Craig Finn and I are really meant to be together?

5 songs that mean a lot to me:

World At Large by Modest Mouse. I could have wrote this. I could have sang this. It sums up my last year and despite it’s minor key mood, I see it as my moving on, growing up, getting my smile back song.


Birdhouse In Your Soul by They Might Be Giants. I have loved this song since I first heard it way way way back when. Yes, I keep the nightlight on inside the birdhouse in my soul.


Government Center by The Modern Lovers. I fall a little bit in love with Jonathan Richman every time I hear a Modern Lovers song and this one is my favorite.


Can’t Smile Without You by Barry Manilow. My mom listened to Barry all the time. She had every record he put out. This song was my favorite as a little kid. I still like it. I still like him. I don’t care what y’all say!


Sing, Sing A Song by the kids on Sesame Street. I have really wonderfully memories of singing this song with my grandma and dancing around the kitchen. John Denver’s Sunshine On My Shoulders, too.

wait a minute mister postman

Kevin came last Sunday. He had a west coast layover and made it Seattle so we could see each other. It marked my sixth trip to the Seattle airport in three months. It marked the third time I’ve seen Kevin in my whole life. I kept scanning the faces as people stepped off the escalator, waiting for the smile or eyes or hair that I would recognize as him. It was instant. I saw half his profile, the tip of his nose, the outer most part of his big toe and knew it was him.

We chatted the whole bus ride into downtown. Shared business cards and movie reviews and talked about all things liquid and easy. It was like no time had passed. It was like we lived next door. We loaded up on Mexican food. He bought a superball. I showed him my office and the crazy beautiful hanging light that I always pause to look at through the spotless glass of the modern furniture store. Big round ball of pretty and wire. He liked it, too.

We stayed up late and I had a hard time not hitting snooze a dozen times when Monday reared it’s ugly head. It was off to work and then a quick lunch before good-bye. I hugged him lots before he got in the taxi. I always promise that I’ll visit him next and he always smiles knowing I mean it. He always visits next though. But this time I’m gonna try really hard to beat him at it. Walking back to work, waving to his cab, I felt pretty lucky for knowing him.

It’s funny how no time will pass. From the second we were standing at the airport waiting for his baggage from the time he left, we were comfortable and chatty. Kevin has been my pen pal since I was 14. I couldn’t even drive yet. My handwriting was big and round. It let me get just a few words per wide ruled line. I dotted my i’s with Cheerio sized circles and talked about wanting world peace and to be in a punk rock band. And still he wrote back to me! His handwriting was small and purposeful. He was working on fanzines and attending conferences and changing the world. He spelled things with extra u’s and sent me cool stuff like cool stickers and band flyers for all ages shows in Toronto. This was before e-mail. Each letter written on ruled paper. His usually yellow. Mine usually white. In pen. Carefully. We would go weeks between letters. Months sometimes. But I remember the days I’d get home from school and his letter would be waiting for me on the stairs. The third step up from the bottom. Leaning against the riser. Those were always good days.

Now we’re grown up, kinda. Sorta. Maybe. And have real jobs and worries and sometimes catch ourselves talking about the younger generation like we’re old. E-mail and phone calls have replaced letters. It’s easy and nice and he’s known me longer than anyone. Like a big brother. Like a good friend. He is still changing the world. I still wanna be in a punk rock band. Nice that some things never change.

summer in slow motion

When he says I’m pretty in ways that sometimes don’t involve words, all I see are butterflies. Thousands of them. Clouding my vision. Making it so I can’t see him anymore. His words hit me like make-believe. The compliments sink in only so far and are chased out with casual comments about his being sweet or too kind. Too kind. It’s too kind to think of me as lovely. Smart? Yes. Funny? Yes. Resilient? Sure. But Butterflies land on my shoulders. They fan their wings in the spring air.

I have this mistrust of him. It’s completely unfounded but it’s there. Under the surface. Lurking. It shoots up questions and misgivings and paranoia and wonder. Why is he here? Why is he standing here? Right in front of me. His lips are moving and butterflies are pouring out. His perfect lips. Pouty. Full. His heavily lashed eyes blink in slow motion behind his glasses. He is unaware of them. They land on his nose and ears and pause there. Listening. How doesn’t he see? There is a pale yellow one walking carefully on a strand of hair. Why can’t I hear what he’s saying anymore? His lips just move. He is smiling as he talks.

Sometimes he’ll walk through them and be waiting with a bag of unassembled dinner and want to get wine up the street. He’ll have gotten things I can’t pronounce. He’ll add walnuts. Or thyme. He’ll make dinner and think he is somehow getting the better end of the deal. But I am. I know it’s me who is the lucky one. It’s me with the butterflies circling around. Talking myself into letting down my guard. Testing the waters. I want so badly to give him my little knight in shining armor. But I keep it in a drawer. I have never given it to anyone like I would place it in his hand. The butterflies aren’t detoured by the steam rising from the pasta. They fly through like it’s not even there.

We’ll sit on the floor and eat dinner like we’re in a park. The wine will make my cheeks pink. And I’ll look at him all dreamy eyed and hopeful. It will smell like herbs and garlic and salty ocean breezes in the apartment. He will tell me about the book he is reading as though the characters were his best friends. We’ll wonder about how cities are on other planets. If aliens are green. We’ll play Chinese Checkers. Just a quick game. And then one more. The butterflies will be slow from the wine, like me. They’ll settle on the floor and linger there while I lay my head against the cushions and notice how perfect his skin is.

He will have band practice. Or homework. I’ll have glitter painting. Or writing. I’ll take my laptop to Zeitgeist and try to unravel this mystery. Try to undo the things that were done. Force open some doors so he can squeeze in another inch. Hoping that what he finds once there is at least what he expected. Perfect world, more than he could have hoped for. Later he’ll let me play with his hair. He’ll lay his head in my lap and close his eyes. He will hold my hand. Kiss my fingers. Bite my lip. All the while, being buried and then revealed by the swarm. A flutter of pastels and thin delicate black legs. Unbelievable pretty.

clover, for now

My new kitten!

talking shit about a pretty sunset

I dropped Jodi off at the airport. We got rained on while saying good bye. I got teary eyed and hugged her for a long time. It was pitch dark on Hwy 5 coming back into the city. The wipers were keeping time to Me and Bobby McGee. Seattle is hidden a little. You don’t really see all it’s bigness until you turn a corner or round a bend and boom – lights everywhere. That’s how it was tonight. Like fireworks.

I got off on Seneca and the exit twisted me around through downtown. All the stone and glass buildings, black concrete street, side guards, painted lines, medians – they look the same as the city I still think of as home. Seattle is much bigger. Much prettier. More hills and views and bustle. But that little section, the up close of a few buildings paired with a highway exit and a nighttime sky reminded me of home. Once I was spit out onto Seneca, it was Seattle again. I was on top of a steep hill facing out to a jet black ocean. By the W Hotel. There were cobblestones and people out still. I was just a few blocks from work. From my apartment. From my neighborhood.

I have one toe in the water of making this my home. Some days I’m ready to leave. Not sure to where. Or how I’d get there. Or what I’d do when I got there. But some days, I just don’t want to be here. It seems too big and scary. Too much work. Too little friendship and no soft place to lay my head. And other days - other days - I’m glad I came. I assume it’ll even out. The glad I cames will over take the ready to leaves. I’ll be settled. I’ll be in the water with my hair wet. I’ll know the best place for pizza. Someone will wave at me from the bus. I’ll say that I’m gonna go to Minneapolis for a few days instead of saying I’m going home.

One ruby slipper click done. A few baby steps taken. My apartment kinda looks like someone lives there.

Tuesday night happy hour with Mike went until 2am. We bar hopped and drank through $60. Talked a lot about photography. I’m surprised at how much I remember from art school. F stops and aperture. Light meters and contrast. We also talked about philosophy and if life is fair. Beauty without pain. Thinking too much. Sometimes not thinking at all. The conversation was elastic and stretchy and polka dotted with drunken laughter. We took a walk to sober up and he drove me home from the parking ramp. The next morning, the headache failed to make it not worthwhile.

Wednesday night Jodi came. I took the bus out to meet her and we got lost coming back. It was the dreaded bus 194 that caused the drop off in the middle of no where, the idle conversation with smiley men whose breath smelled of warm beer, the 2 hour trek getting back to the apartment. We were both sleepy and giddy and talked a mile a minute. My dress pants were making me slide off the bus seat. I was so very happy to see her wonderful big grin.

The days she was here flew by. We ventured to parts of the city I had only heard about. Ballard. Freemont. Belltown. We roamed my neighborhood with eyes peeled for little places I’d like. We were in and out of bars and cafes. Shops and shoe stores. We got drunk on martinis and hopped in a cab at 3am to go to the grocery store. My apartment was barren. I hadn’t been able to find a near by or easy bus ride away place with more than a quarter of anything you’d need to whip up a dinner but drunk and resolute with money to spare Safeway was our destination. We pooled our collective and considerably lessened brain power into loading up a cart of “heavy things” and junk food. We ate ice cream drum sticks as we made fun of most everything, including each other. Again, the hangover was well worth the fun.

It was so nice to have her here. To help me find my way around. To rent a car with. To go to Vancouver with. To feel like I was on vacation with. To find the best breakfast place with. The best martini bar with. The best thrift store with. Saying good bye was pretty dang hard.

This airport. Every time I drop off a friend there are 15 minutes of wishing it were me with the ticket. A little stomach knot of worry or fear or just plain old stress comes and then - - - goes. The drive or bus ride back, the smell of the ocean, the sound of my neighborhood all start to work their magic and wiggle their way into me. They remind me of the possibilities. The good. The potential here. I think of my new friends. My apartment. The job that I’m coming to love. And then, it’s alright that it’s not me with the seat assignment and snack sized peanuts with my name on them. I think it’s then, I think it’s now, that the whole wow of being here starts to settle a little. Seattle starts to creep into me. It’s personality making itself known.

It’s late.

Monday is already here.

Jodi’s plane leaves in an hour.

She’s at the airport now. Magazines and pretzels in tow.

It’s bedtime for me.

hold still and smile

Mike is concerned that I will one day succeed in my quest to grab hold of and then hug a ginourmous pigeon. As I have established in an earlier post, the pigeons here are huge. Chicken sized. House pet sized. Give me another piece of yo muffin or I’ll kick your ass size. They are also plentiful. I pass two or three hundred just on my way to work. The whole idea that I would actually catch a pigeon is a bit far fetched, no matter how much I threaten to do so. My ridiculous arm outstretched jog toward my feathered friends has yet to achieve the desired results. The pigeons, for their enormity, are still rather quick. Having witnessed many a failed attempt, Mike still is compelled to yell “Stop! Stop! They are dirty! Don’t touch them!’ each time I start my determined trot. I counter with my non factual and completely unscientific argument that their dirtiness is an urban legend propagated by pigeon wranglers to keep themselves in business. But he ain’t buying it.

For all you who may be gasping in HORROR, Mike is a friend from work. Out here. In Seattle. To my knowledge, he has not, nor in theory ever will:
1) Own a coffee shop with me
2) Have a job that pays him less than $25,000 a year
3) Have trouble getting his own apartment
4) Use more hair product than I do

Hee hee.

Seattle is, like, a real city. I went out until 4am and I wasn’t at someone’s house. Clubs can stay open past bar time as long they quit serving booze, which of course they don’t. They just quit serving booze in glasses. You can buy cans of Coke or Red Bull with some emptied out and the liquor of your choice making up the difference. Slick. Score 10 points for ingenuity! For those of you who know me, this next part is going to come as a bit of a shock – it was a loungy dance club kinda place! There was a fog machine and disco balls! There was throbbing techno beats and my kidneys were wondering why they were vibrating! I’m usually the kind of girl to be found drinking beer at low key neighborhood bars or the occasional rock n roll venue – so this, this slicked up stobe lit room of rumba – was new for me. I had a fabulous time though! I even DANCED. That is also new for me! I like dancing, quite frankly, I dance all the time, but it’s usually alone in my living room. Not anymore! And apparently I even have “moves” – who knew!

I was offered lip gloss. Of all the clever conversation, of all the people watching, of all the drinking and drunken debauchery, that is the one moment that stands out the most of the loungy experience. Being offered lip gloss by a total stranger. It was clearly HER lip gloss. Not hermetically sealed. Surely been used at least a dozen times. Handed over in some lip herpes sharing gesture of friendship. I had to pass, homie carries her own stash. My excuse: “I’m currently rocking Lip Smacker’s Dr. Pepper – but thanks!”

The rest of the weekend has been pretty low key. I have some work to do. Laundry, too. I went for a couple walks. I had round two of my knitting class. It’s one of those spring days where it’s hard to be inside. The weather forecast threatened thunder storms, but they have yet to materialize. They have yet to even darken the sky. It’s still crystal clear bluer than blue pretty outside.

Spring.

Zeitgeist had old Modest Mouse playing when I stumbled in there for my morning coffee.

I made spinach quiche in my fancy French pie dish that was a present from all the cool kids I use to manage back in Minneaplesauce.

I have a crush on KEXP.

Jodi is visiting next week!

I got paid on Friday. A check with taxes already taken out (!!) and that was just mine mine mine. All mine. I could buy an entire fruit stand full of heirloom oranges! I could buy a hundred pairs of cashmere underpants! I could hire someone to remove any lint that might collect on me though out the day using only the finest scotch tape!

Endless.

Possibilities.

you were all over town but still so crayola brown

Free falling. Trying to grab hold of a tree branch on the way down. Leaves scrapping my skin. Twigs poking. Spit out. Merry go round. Fuck! I’m late! Do these pants look alright? It’s only my third week. I can’t be late. Third week. “Yes ma’am,” he’d say. Whistle, too. Pinstripes are the best things ever. This sweater is pissing me off. Wrinkled. Smoothed. Wrinkled. No time. Gotta go. Some days I will look better than other days.

Out the door. Sunny. Fish for pink movie star sun glasses. Why is my bag so fucking BIG? Here they are. They seem wiggly. Fix. Find a glasses place and have them fixed. What time is it? That Asian place across from Tully’s has a clock. Take Yesler to Western. Yesler to Western. Look at my ass. How did that happen? It looks round, but it isn’t. Magic pants. Super imposed over a $1500 lime green sea urchin made of wire and plastic and for sale. Hello. I see you every day. Turn. Yesler. Down to Western. What am I doing here? Go home. Go home. Hey, come get me. I belong here. Dropped out of the sky here. Put here. Thrown here.

Stop light.

Crossing the street. Dozens of people. Like a real city. “Sorry, I don’t have any change.” But I do. Is that a lie? A fib? I don’t lie. Does that count? Do I count? Tree branches. Scraped. Rocks. Grab hold. Stop all this for a bit. Can I catch my breath? Flashing orange hand. Flashing orange hand. Flashing orange hand. Glowing. Our turn soon. On. Walking man silhouette. Go. Cobblestones. Clunk clunkc lucnk. Who do I ask?

I saw her before. Remember her hair. Did I leave my door open? Time? Tully’s. Pho. Vietnamese. Clock inside. 8:45. Fuck! What can I say? What can I say? Nothing to say. I overslept. Slept over. Alarm went off. Closed my ears slept through did not stir sound asleep go away be quiet I can’t hear you. I’ll just say I overslept. Nothing more to. Is this Western? Yes. Turn. Just a few blocks. Just a few now.

Will today be any easier? It will be 5 before I even take off my coat. Fast days. Questions. Reports. Who is going to call the book? Meeting. Do I have meetings today? Did I bring that. I did. Lunch with that guy. I think at noon. High noon. He said he watched Deadwood. Bang bang. Oh. Look. He’s cute. Smile. Smile back. Someone’s life changed when I said yes. When I packed. When I left. I wonder whose it is. Bother. Bother. Just focus on. Stop light.

Ferry dumps 4 dozen people onto the side street. Have to wait for the human river to let up. Turn to a trickle. I need to cross. I’m late. I’m late. “Sorry, I don’t have any change.” The line in Starbucks is a dozen deep. Fucking ferry. Stop light now. So close. Alexis hotel awning one block up. One block up. Is it 8:50? 8:55? Fuck. Turn green, please. Turn. Green. Go. Shuffled. Jostled. "Excuse me." Pigeons. Crossing the street. That's the driver who took Paul. Smile. Wave. He knows who I am. One block. In. There. Main doors. My shoes sound like high heels on the glossy wood floor. Click click click. Press up. Just once. That mirror makes me look pretty. Why do I even bother to do my hair? It's all over. Wind. When will I get rained on today? Or the light. Maybe it's the light. Some sort of orange glow. Smoothes. Ding. Open. Press three. Press door close. Close. Up. Clear my head. The lights in here are bright. Catch my breath. It's all good. It's all good. Fuck! Pinch. Open. Out.

the more lost you are, the more you have to look forward to

I had a page and a half of 11point Arial all set and ready to go, but this isn’t it. The page and half was on the Seattle this isn’t. On the occasional bouts of homesickness that kick me in the stomach. My once in a while doubts. My hands shaking during my first staff meeting. I wrote it in bits and pieces of overwhelmed and worried and afraid. But that isn’t Seattle.

It could be.

But I would rather it not.

It’s clay right now. It’s all up to me. It’s a million strips of newspaper and bowl of flour and water mixed together, and maybe even a balloon. I can make what ever I want.

I think I’ll make a crow.

A big one.

Jet black.

Have it hold something shiny and beautiful in it’s beak.

I once read somewhere that crows carry souls from darkness into light. That they are good luck. Ethical. Keepers of time and space. Magic.

Like here.

Seattle is Good luck. Magic. Silver lining. Pure potential. Open arms.

I have a few great co-workers. A local coffee shop. A Chinese take-out place. A dry cleaning lady. A smiley soup guy. A knitting class. A writing class. A really good friend. A one week away from being mine kitten. Guitar lessons. A nice apartment. A NYC style walk to work. Mostly nice weather, including some of the rainy days. The fun feeling of being lost and not caring. Of everything being new. The Sound. The Market.

All that in just three weeks.

Yes.

I’ll make a crow.

better to help people than garden gnomes

We woke up Wednesday morning without an alarm clock. Without a watch. Without a cell phone to give us hints as to how late we’d slept, if we’d missed the movers, if it was even still Wednesday. The clock on the oven said 6am. The one outside said 6:30. The second hand on both appeared to be still. The movers were coming at 8. It was sunny. We could hear cars and seagulls. Horn beeps and pigeon coos.

people in pinstripes
and furrowed brows walk by, we sit
wednesday, 7 a.m.

In a daze we made it to the coffee shop. Standing in line, wearing the same clothes we’d had on for days, our hair everywhere, talking. Paul needed stamps for postcards home. Ones he had bought in Montana. For his parents. He liked the idea that his mom would hang them on the refrigerator. I needed to wait for the movers and let them in. We each got coffee and shared a scone, walked along the water and made it back just in time to wait outside. The concrete stoop was cold and in the shade.

The movers came. Paul left in search of a post office. I signed paper after paper saying that if they broke something, it wasn’t their fault. In triplicate. One to me. One to them. One for good luck. They were done in less than two hours and sat around in my new apartment until I kicked them out.

Paul came back but I don’t remember it at all. I can’t recall if I was outside or in my apartment. If he was late or on time or if we even had agreed upon a time. I just know he came back and we returned the truck and took the bus to downtown and it was sunny and warm. I remember the sun and the warm. I remember being happy that it wasn’t raining and happy that all the things we needed to get done were done and the day was free. Paul wrote a poem on his walk that I made him repeat a dozen times. His gravely voice, perfect. I want to write it here but didn’t ask him if I could. So I won’t share it yet. It will be just his for a while longer.


We went to the Market. Pike’s Place Market. My favorite part of Seattle. It was filled with tourists and smelled of fruit stands, ocean and camera flashes. We liked the hub-bub. The being jostled. The bumping into each other and everyone else. Like cattle. We’d duck into the Italian markets for a second to gaze at the cheese cases and bins of fresh bread, then back into the heard until the next little store pulled us in with a smell or a window display or a catchy name. Everywhere my eyes landed, there was something pretty. Rows of fruit or magazines. Families taking pictures of each other with fish mongers or iron pigs. Cobblestones and scruffy men with guitars.

guitar case open
dollars and coins on the teal
his voice kissing the notes

We had lunch outside, on a balcony above the hustle. A Cuban place. We could see the water and the mountains. I got to wear my sunglasses and trade spicy black beans for potato halves covered in a rich ochre colored sauce. I remember Paul asking me about my new job. Saying he could see living here. Maybe moving here. Maybe in a year. I remember telling him that I wasn’t nervous for my first day. That I liked not having to be anywhere and I especially liked that neither of us had watches on. After 4 days of being no more than a foot apart, we started to tease each other and banter. I kept accusing him of picking on me, and he’d defend himself saying he wasn’t. Said with a smile. A sly one.


After lunch, we poked fun of each other and the exhibits at the Seattle Art Museum. Paul is whip smart and it was extra nice to have a sparring partner who could hold his own with witty repartee as well as impress me with ideas about what we were seeing. He made fun of Jackson Pollock and confessed a love for large things made out of wood. I was enamored with the repetition of images in the China exhibit and amused by the hundreds of hand stitched Barbie sized jumpsuits on display, nailed in a pattern to a white wall. I remember walking out the front doors of the museum, face to face with the ankles of the Hammering Man, and knowing that this was the best day in a long time.

The rest of the afternoon melts together. We got coffee and sat outside. We looked at the water and walked around the city. I remember us each saying more than once how much we loved not knowing what time it was and having no where to be, nothing to do, no truck to drive. It was nice to finally be where we were going.

We had planned to eat dinner somewhere kind of fancy and I had planned to eat fish for the first time in ages. I wanted to get a little drunk on white wine, too. Laura gave us a few recommendations but due to long waits and no seats at the bar, we wound up across the street. It was fancy and nice, and instantly better than where we had left. Paul picked the wine. I liked that, chivalrous and smart all at once. I was tipsy after a glass or two. Cheap date. Dinner was amazing. I had berry salsa. He had a drink that tasted like stuffing. The conversation is kind of a blur. I know I smiled the whole time. I know a laughed a whole lot. I remember giving him a look and, I think, getting it back. That look of when it’s been a good day, when you are with a good friend, that happy to be just where you are kind of look. On the walk home I made him say his poem a dozen times more.

Back in the apartment, we kept the lights off and sat on the couch together. He laid his head in my lap and I mussed and smoothed his hair. We were quiet, I remember. Street noise bounced off the floors and walls. The glow of downtown made everything blue. He kissed me. He whispered “Oh, Nichols” when I bit his lip a little. I laughed and he kissed my teeth. I kinda wanted to stop time for a bit. It was a present day. I don’t know who from or for what occasion. But it was so needed. Like a calm after a storm or soup when you’re sick. It wasn’t Paul. It wasn’t Seattle. It wasn’t the sunny day. It was something in me. I let go of some of the ick I had been caring around and picked up a glimpse of what my life could be like. That there are boys out there who are who a wild mix of sweet and creative and sexy and smart who’ll trade secret looks with me at dinner. That there are apartments with swings and 2nd floor windows you can crawl out of. That there are newspapers and moving allowances and brand new jobs.

This ends the story of our drive here. Of being dropped off by Paul. Thursday there were clocks and clothes to pack and airplanes to catch. When he left, there were about 15 minutes where I wished it was me leaving instead. I missed my house and my friends. I missed knowing my way around. I felt really alone and afraid for the first time. Worried Seattle would never seem like home. But just as quickly as that feeling came, it left.

Welcome to Chapter Three.