retrograde this.

I'm gonna anthropomorphize and pretend that this little cyclopsian fur-troll actually gives a shit about me leaving. 

I leaned into Roy St to get this image, but cars were going by and I was hasty and it's still not ideal. I initially stopped because I love the way the wires line up almost perfectly with the angles of such an otherwise unattractive yet uncomfortably compelling building. if this building had a larynx, it would sound like a lifelong chain-smoker. this building would stir its scotch with its finger and bitch about its job and get surly-drunk and be awkwardly swarthy with the young horrified-looking waitstaff. this building is an embarrassment that you can still muster a begrudging compliment about. 

I found these stairs by accident. as I was descending, I suddenly realized "huh. I'm gonna have to go back up at some point." but traipsing down was delightful. I was facing the lazy sunset and passing ascending, unhappy-looking people in earnest workout gear. 

I love Seattle's diplomatic approach to accessible and bombastic vantage points. other places are not like this. there is so much value and grounding in being able to properly survey your surroundings. I mean, fuck, I took this photo from a bus stop. this is what passes for a fucking bus stop in Seattle. pretty little town, this.

cool light on the bike trail-thing under I-5. 

this building first reminded me of a bat, and then it reminded me of Mrs Roper. 

I have always loved this building. The Fairfax! but I have so far been able to find nothing about its history. all I know is that, according to Zillow, units within have sold for up to $465K within the past year. 

*

sometimes it feels like Seattle, Recent Seattle, is an ornate and enviable shop window, enclosed in glass, that I merely get to pathetically peer through. 

I actually devised a plot about how I could come back at night, the darkness disguising my neuroticism, and pull all this dead shit off these bushes. good for the plants, aesthetically satisfying for the neighbors, and pupil-dilatingly relaxing for me! 

my neighborhood.

fucking fruit flies. I suspect they came in on some flowers, since I don't have mature adult accoutrements like ornamental bowls of fresh fruit around my lair. I learned this remedy on the internets, and QFC actually has cheaper store-brand apple cider vinegar than Safeway. so today I chopped up a fucking orphaned apple and put it in a jar with some fucking vinegar and made a little funnel and secured the funnel with duct tape, and now I wait. I'm horrifying myself with my behavior about this. I finished creating this thing and actually said aloud "okay, good luck! you fuckers get to die now!" 

if you align the monorail track properly, you can hide the odious Westin sign. and it's even more nnghhhhhSeattle. 

don't press yer lens on the window of a vacant storefront unless you really want to know what's inside. 

a neighbor cat. she rolled in the sidewalk-petals right before I took this. 

she humors me. 

and yet still another new thing! this plant has given my life shape and focus! I'm serious. what's it gonna do today? the fact that it's doing so well here, this li'l orphan plant, makes me so happy.  

it's all pretty easy, really. 

the freedom to do things

last night's dream: I'm standing in a shower, water on but not spraying, covertly smoking a cigarette. I expect the water will help eradicate the smell. I'm smoking a Camel Wide, the first pack I grabbed. "I'll only have the one, and then I'll throw the pack away" I decide. or hide it somewhere for later. ash circles the drain. the ceramic tub is baby blue. I throw the cigarette out the window and turn the shower head on. I push my hair out of my eyes and my hands smell disgusting. 

*

it's always so harrowing to wake up from smoking dreams. sometimes my fingers are clenched like I'm still holding a cigarette. it's relief, followed by an irritating sense of missing. I can't help but think, however briefly and however erroneously, that this would solve everything. it's been years and I still dream about this shit? smoking made such brilliant fucked-up sense in so many ways. 

*

somewhere in the CD. oh picturesque universe, stop flirting with my aesthetic sensibilities! 

celebrating my MRI with a Popsicle and some whiskey. Fuck, Thursday was an exceptional day for multiple reasons. that evening, I even wrote TODAY WAS AWESOME! on my phone calendar so I wouldn't forget. 

I always disliked the crawly intimacy of seeing mouth-marks on things like Popsicles. it's the same reason Butterfingers repulse me. I mean, they're tasty as fuck, but the way saliva clings to the shrapnel is just vile. and lip prints on glasses? 

such appallingly privileged biases! 

Capitol Hill. 

Ginger tea and honey and I ain't even sick. it's so nurturing, like giving your esophagus a hug. 

The Gables, 16th & Harrison. built 1911, 24 units, original rent $45/month. an adjacent observatory with a dance floor, roof garden, and billiard table was finished in 1912. 

what I refer to as "spit bugs", Wikipedia calls "plant-sucking nymphs which encase themselves in froth in springtime." YOU WIN, Internet! the spit is actually foamy plant sap that insulates the nymph and keeps it from drying out while it feeds. as adults (common term "froghopper", technically Cercopoidea) they look like beetly flies and can jump with greater trajectory and distance than fleas. 

now we know! this dewy subdroplet was an added bonus. 

beach crab! 

human laziness at Discovery Park. 

and the tide folding in on itself. 

there are so many emotionally therapeutic vantage points in this city!  

I have felt happier and calmer in the past few days than I've felt in weeks. 

high five. 

breathability

someone once told me that they felt sorry for me when they read my writing, because it was obvious that I spend a lot of time alone. 

that condescending conversation took place over a year ago and it still pisses me off when I think about it. it's such a wholly different spin on how I interpret things. 

*

solitude has nothing to do with the existence of moments like this. but I feel honored to be witness to it. 

my happy tree on a 73 degree May Monday, circa 650pm. 

limbal rings are the darker borders around your irises. they lighten as we age so more pronounced ones are supposed to imply youthfulness and therefore "desirability". but what if your limbal-ringed eyeballs are surrounded by tired sunburn and Uncontrollable Resting BitchFace (TM)? what then? 

so if I stare intently at you, it's only because I'm assessing your limbal rings, baby. 

the La Crosse apartments, built in 1907. I have a particular crush on that aerie unit, which was originally built as an open-air rooftop pavilion. it's one of the first buildings in Seattle that had its own telephone system. in 1920 a resident put beehives on the roof and collected 40 gallons of honey in one year.  

the bionic cactus pear, week 2.5. in honor of "Little Shop of Horrors", I christen this plant "Tawdry." 

new shit on 9th. 

I was actually, specifically just thinking about how much I wanted a pair of red, um, "please respect me" shoes. and the universe made it so. 

"then she asked, 'what have you been doing all these years?'

I wished I had something impressive to say, but again I could think of nothing but the truth." 

Iris Murdoch 

and the ides of May.

it's 3am. I fell asleep at 11 and woke up at 1. it happens. 

this used to be my hour, man- I'd be just getting off work and blearily grocery shopping among the stockers with their transistor radios, my scrubs splattered with crusty animal effluvia. driving home, I was often the only car on the Aurora bridge. sometimes I'd see possums staggering through manicured yards. when I worked in Wallingford and lived on First Hill I'd take the night bus. one time a drunken dude sitting behind me played with my hair without my permission. 

I loved feeling like Seattle was my personal playground. daytime can just be too predictable and crowded. when I stopped working swings and started living a diurnal existence, I was amazed by how many fucking people actually exist in this city. 

now it's just quiet and dark. I love the smell of the night. I love wondering what the few people out are up to. thoughts are different and more loaded now. what's that adage- nothing good happens at 3am? 

salt and pepper shakers at my parents' house. 

12th Ave. 

say "fern fronds" five times fast. 

baby spiders! *claps hands gleefully*

the darling little shit isn't supposed to be on the ledge. 

she loves that fucking toy. 

my former lair. the airstream is back in front of my old window and the blinds were tightly closed on a beautiful day. hahaha! fuck that place. 

Belltown fauna. 

"I found that the more I thought, the more details, half-forgotten or malobserved, floated up from my memory. there seemed no end to them. 

"so I learned that even after a single day's experience of the outside world a man could easily live a hundred years in prison. he'd have laid up enough memories never to be bored. obviously, in one way, this was a compensation."

-Camus

I remembered two dreams from last night. 

the first: I'm in a field and flying a kite by myself. it takes a while to get aloft. I'm not really running much, just letting it do its thing. it catches abruptly and starts to pull. "I haven't flown a kite since I was a kid!" I say, although there doesn't seem to be anyone else around. the kite is small and generically shaped, with tattered edges and washed-out sections of primary colors. it's a kite that's been neglected. 

and when I look up again it's just a string, and it's still pulling into the wind, and I want to let go of it but I wake up instead. 

interpretation, courtesy dreammoods.com: "some choice or gift comes with strings attached. there is a price you will need to pay. or it may suggest that someone is pulling the strings. you are not really in control of the direction your life is taking." 

...yeah, I can definitely apply that to some situations lately. 

second dream: I am in my newly rearranged bedroom and it is exactly as it is in reality. it is nighttime and I see something on the other side of the curtain, a ducking-down head perhaps? so I look out the window. it's my ex, stalking me, spying on me. he starts to rise up again, slowly, trying to look in. and I lunge at the window from the inside, trying to scare him away, trying to seem more dangerous and less fucking vulnerable than I feel. and I wake up. I am terrified and laying face down and my heartbeat is moving the mattress. 

interpretation: "to dream you are looking out the window signifies your outlook on life, your consciousness and point of view. it also refers to your intuition and awareness. you may be reflecting on a decision. or the dream is telling you that you need to go out into the larger world and experience life. consider the significance of the things you see when you look out the window."

and dreaming about being stalked: "it represents a difficulty or issue you're not confronting. these problems are not going to go away just because you are ignoring them."

these analogies fit. 

that is, I know exactly what is prompting them, and I am doing my damnedest to finally respect my intuition and make the most decisive, necessary changes. 

I say that often. sometimes I even believe it. but I chronically tend to flake out on my convictions after a while, to my detriment. and I'm getting too fucking old for my shit. 

*

I will upload more stuff later, but for now, Denny Way. this used to be the Greyhound service garage. the sign says "a new beginning in an old place."

why yes you MAY!

(one of) the May Day protests went directly past my work. at this point, it was just a snarl of earnest young people and some dude feebly playing bagpipes and a bunch of smartphones raised aloft and about 150 cops. the cops looked bemused and bored. 

my first, admittedly shameful thought: this would be an excellent time to commit a crime. all the cops are babysitting this parade. 

when did I reluctantly stop believing that shit like this was going to change the world and started seeing it as disorganized borderline-brattiness that really solves nothing? I mean, fuck, I'm still a throbbing liberal. I'm not too old. I used to be these guys. kids. whatever. I've marched defiantly and yelled back and hung fliers and fancied myself the one person that could change the world. we can all, each of us, possibly be the tipping point, the reason for things to finally make sense and be better. I still mostly believe that.... 

but I'm cynical because it's not the fucking efficient way to do things. it doesn't actually communicate what needs to be done. consider the Occupy movement: it irreversibly devolved from something everyone could agree with and get behind and feel passionate about, to a haphazard shitshow of inarticulate bleating and no tangible solutions. 

I saw on the news the next day that, unsurprisingly, everything went to shit at the Seattle protests and people were injured and windows were smashed. and I just rolled my eyes. it explains the three separate helicopters purring directly above my lair all evening. 

I guess I relate more to that quote from Harold & Maude: "still fighting for the Big Issues, but now in my small, individual way." I like how cheerily she said that. 

anyway, enough curmudgeony pontificating.

*

I love this building. I love this city in the springtime. Seattle is unsurpassed at baring its plumage. 

I have also always loved buildings that go directly to the sidewalk. another good example is at 65th & Phinney. it feels very European. these are the Serena apartments, 12th & Roy, built in 1926. 

Volunteer Park. there are a fuckton of gnats in this city! I wonder how many insects I eat and inhale every day simply by walking around. 

the sun at my back. 

the new growths on the cactus pear are already biting back. 

another view of the LimeIce simply because I'm so fucking impressed with my underwhelming domesticity. 

wisteria! 

last night I watched the bird on the wire for about fifteen minutes. he was an asshole, even in avian terms. he would fly to other trees and bitch out the birds there, then come back to the wire and shriek. at one point he flew to the very top branch of a birch tree and swayed in the breeze. black bird, small, long beak, makes a noise like a slide whistle...? 

I also discovered that my upstairs neighbor has mounted a birdhouse directly above my living room window. this explains the birds I see flying almost-directly into the building.

*

I like her style.