clouded

the other day I recorded the non-residential establishments within a one-block radius of my lair: 

-Ethiopian evangelical church

-Chinese bakery and bar 

-fancy restaurant/bar (artisanal chicarrones and muddled liquor, etc. very Cap Hill Bourgeois, hereafter referred to as CHB) 

-another church of some Christian persuasion

-wine bar

-remodeling consultant office

-boutique day spa

-fancy French restaurant/bar

-organic bake-at-home pizza place with adjacent ice cream parlor

-fancy Italian restaurant 

all of these, apart from the churches, are on the first floor of all the new fucking condos. the best I can say: they're local and independent. the world probably doesn't need more twee overpriced frippery, but it also doesn't need more spray-tanning and Subways. 

On a vaguely related note, I am pleasantly reminded how distant a memory Anchorage is becoming. 

*

glistening meat-suit! 

I read this thing about using photos of your bookshelves in personal ads, instead of leering selfies of your own dumb face. I like it! it definitely gives one greater insight- or greater inclination to flee, depending. 

Queen Anne, where even the garbage is polite. 

2nd Avenue. 

The Bay of Elliotts. 

White Horse Tavern. 

Queen Anne. 

what's better than a cat wearing clothes? not fucking much. 

Roger Dean'd misty morning something-something. I miss this angle of the city. I used to see it every day. 

*

some songs have that part: the chord changes, the tempo alters, the listener is forced to re-pay attention. I am trying to remember to compile a list... it's often difficult unless you're listening to something right then. 

these give me chills every fucking time: 

-Brian Eno "Baby's on Fire" at 2:21

-Tears for Fears "Sowing the Seeds" at 3:54

-CAN "Mother Sky" at 2:09

-and scoff not: Seals and Crofts "Summer Breeze" at 2:27

26 hours

Dr. Seuss trees. I dunno; what the fuck do you call them? 

Saturday night at the Unicorn. 

I mean, just, like, humanity, you know? 

Lower Queen Anne. 

looking east at what is west. 

however this happened, I am thrilled by it. 

the sculpture park. 

what's better than a cat? a cat that smells like its own moist gamey-assed mouth, that's what. 

"the sky is not only above our heads. 

it extends all the way down to earth. 

each time we raise our foot from the ground, 

we are walking in the sky. 

walk around the city with that awareness. 

check how long you walked in the sky today."

-Yoko Ono 

only sing along to Hank Williams when you are DEFINITELY alone.

....so then I had to walk down the street, past couples on dates and girls in heels and diners eating al fresco, carrying a fucking plunger. you know who wants to see that? no one. 

this was at value village, exactly like so. there's writing over the center photo but it seems to be for the frame itself, not for the pictures within. this is one of those deliciously awful discoveries I tend to specifically seek out: the personal photographs tossed into thrift-store piles. it's so fucking tragic! >1970s ones are the best for this; they're not romantic and antique. they're of people who are most likely still alive, possibly even local. 

some close-ups: 

do you know these people? this family torn asunder? 

B.C. in the C.D. I just made that up. 

another filter of my sexy, mysterious tower friends. I used to live kitty-corner; now I'm two blocks away. my radio reception sucks less now. 

I passed on this purchase. 

*

hey! I took some photos of the fucked-up estate sale! 

no one I asked knew how old the house actually was. my guess: ~1908. it smelled of piss and stagnation, like whomever lived (and lived and lived) there spent the past decade sitting inertly in a stained chair, staring at the filthy walls, while feral cats crawled in through random windows and fornicated in the corners. 

I mean, for Christ's sake, this is the fucking bathroom. i expected a cloud of satan-flies to suddenly swarm in. 

the worst part was realizing that someone really did live here. were they totally alone when they died? did anyone ever check on them? alone in this nightmarish house all day, what did they think about? it's half a block from where I work, although admittedly in the opposite direction from how I always get there, but I'd never even noticed the place before. it's so grotesque to root through someone's shit after they die when you had no idea of their existence while they were alive. 

...all this self-reflective guilt aside, I fucking love estate sales. 

inside a closet. 

wallpaper. 

the way the pattern on the linoleum eroded. 

you know those sinister photos from the 50s of people dressed up as horrifying Easter bunnies, holding crying children?for some reason this chair reminded me of those. 

don't open the oven. 

a window in the living room, sorry, parlor. it's a huge, gorgeous house that's in such depressing disrepair that it's likely to be razed. maybe someone will put more fucking Apodments on the lot. that'd be super. 

and amid all the disarray, a Hawai'i-shaped Don Ho. 

*

"from the back, the buffalo's scrotum swings jauntily to the side, as though the animal were barreling through the grassland, and as his tail is raised the anus is clearly visible, as crisp and articulated as the straw insert on a thirty-two ounce Big Gulp lid."*

-Dave Madden, 'The Authentic Animal'

*...I think this is one of my new most favorite sentences ever. 

the hottest of damns

when I lived in Yelm (shudder), my ex's parents lived only a few miles away. they were renovating their bathroom and had a baby-blue commode to dispose of. I took it with the intention of making a fuck-you-suburbia planter out of it. and so it sat in the backyard, empty and gross and blue, completely un-utilized in my planter fantasy, until I finally moved away. 

I think of that fucking miserable era every time I see orphan toilets. it's still a great idea, damn it. 

I admit: I fucking love the space needle. I like how it is immediately iconic and looks like nothing else in the world, which are the marks of awesome architecture (even when potentially hideous). but I especially enjoy it from a distance. up close, it's too polished and surrounded by tourists and fucking drum circles and shitty souvenirs. it's cheesy and expensive and most locals never go to the top unless guests are visiting from out of town. but from afar! I love the *Holiday Tree* of lights and how a few years ago they painted the pinnacle Galaxy Gold, and how depending on the various sociopolitical goings-on there are rainbow flags and Seahawks flags and red lights for HIV awareness and it's just an awesome nexus that anyone in a ten-mile radius can glance up and admire. seattle, with its topographic variability, is pretty spectacular that way. 

hence, another view from my neighborhood. 

my partially melted snack from the good people at a LBGTQ church booth. 

my street. 

apparently someone chewed an entire container of Bubble Tape and stuck it on the outside of the bus window, mere inches from my head. my camera was pretending to be classy and refused to focus on the gum. 

First Hill. I still have fantasies of an evocative attic room with rain-smacked dormer windows... and oh my god, window seats. Jesus, like I need even more places to be introverted and plaintive. 

Belltown. 

the paint ("Ocean Mist", my favorite variety of mist) which shall not come off, 12 hours later. 

4th Avenue. I always wondered if the mirrored buildings around downtown were built with the idea of what they would potentially reflect.

Montlake. 

this is what happens when you use the Roger Dean filter on yourself. 

the revised table-thing that I plucked from the alley a couple months ago! my lair smells of paint and possibilities.

"ask a female firefighter what it's like being a female firefighter and rightfully she'll stare at you without an answer. because what are you asking her? are you asking her what it's like to do her job or what it's like to be her sex, the sex she's been her entire life?" Dave Madden 

your android replica

I Harrison Bergeron'd the bejesus out of yet another bombastic sunset and rising moon. sodden monochrome: the great equalizer. 

I grew up with this door knocker. it is one of my most favorite inanimate objects in the known world. 

we do this pose a lot lately, unless I'm laying on my chest, in which case she hangs out on my ass. then I call her "ass-cat" and we, like, drink tea and tat doilies and talk about our feelings.

more creepy Holga filter experimentation. 

the sexy, mysterious Route 7. 

a Hillman City nail salon. 

Pioneer Square on a desolate Friday night. 

an outtake from Spork '14. 

one of the random buildings of the old Olympia brewery. 

and another one. I fucking love this stairwell. there aren't too many fire escapes in these parts. Portland, comparably, has a fuckton. 

a filtered version of the ghetto sangria. 

today a woman walking behind me on the sidewalk told me I have "happy hair." I thanked her. I needed that.