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.