ym mis Ionawr

another casualty at 12th & John. 

the alley off 16th & Denny. 

I really fucking love this building. there are a few structures in this city I've gotten all girlish and embarrassing about in posts prior; I'm going to start revisiting them. 

apparently this was built in 1907. i love the curved walls and the glass blocks- it reminds me of a university science lab. 

the wet fiver I found the other night. 

the preface of this discovery is a mortifying one: I was at QFC buying fucking lollipops (and nothing else). the self-check wouldn't take my immaculate dollar after I'd already put another one in. the guy working the area was a surly little shit who undoubtedly hates both his job and sad women like me who come in alone to grouchily buy sugar. "you can just keep it" I said when he finally came over, handing him the refused dollar and leaving the candy. and as I walked (stalked!) out of the store I suddenly realized "I just gave that guy a dollar, plus the dollar I've already put in the fucking machine, and I've got no goddamn lollipops." my assholish and abrupt tendencies often bleed over into sheer stupidity. I sure showed him. 

and then, not three blocks later, I found this. it was directly in front of my building and there was no one else around. maybe it was the universe's way of saying "fuck, do I have to pay you to make you behave like less of a wench?" 

Shorty's. 

another view from Ballard. 

Georgetown. 

through the windows of the 25. I love the 25! I've fawned over this route before. it travels through so much compressed functionality. 

the cats at Re-Store, or whatever it's called now. sometimes I go just to visit them. 

and admire the lurid plumbing fixtures. 

and shit like this. 

quality literature at the dollar store. 

I suspect many high-fives and much hackeysackery commenced after this tagging. 

her true nature. 

I had another Anchorage dream last night. I was walking east along 6th by L street, where all those parking lots are. there was a construction crane a few blocks away with a huge sculpture at the top of a man in a suit with an inane expression, tie flapping in the wind. "that's supposed to represent our mayor" someone told me. "it's a performance piece." 

then I was moving, again, that night, having packed nothing. orangey sun reflected off the puddles. "Jesus, there's hardly any snow at all" I said. 

canned champagne

I've been having more dreams about moving. in last night's, I'm in my old room in the house I grew up in, but I am the current/adultish me and it is understood that I'm moving back to Anchorage. again. and I'm leaving that night and only just "remembering" that this is even supposed to be happening. so I'm frantically packing and strangely worried about these 3 cardigans that I needed to launder before I can bring them. and I'm thinking why am I moving back? I swore I'd never move back! and it's too soon to return even if I wanted to! I'm rather horrified by this terrible decision. I remind myself of orange sunlight glinting off the inlet to try to calm myself. I don't have to live in Anchorage. I could still just live in Alaska.

based on the reality of things lately, I understand why these dreams are happening. I find myself circling the same fucking drain, as it were: expecting a different outcome from the same unsatisfying situation. and I know exactly what the underlying catalyst is (nothing to do with Alaska), which makes it even eerier in dream-form. sometimes my subconscious feels like the most fucking annoying asshole friend who's always tactlessly, cruelly right.

*

I love nearly everything about this exact particular little spot in the world. 

Cal Anderson Park. 

fog from the 45th overpass. I noticed the birds first. 

Broadway after last night's game, reprinted because I quite like this photo. I just wish the cars were about 45 years older. 

First Hill. 

for the reflections. I think this was built in 1912. 

and this was directly across the street. 

Belltown. 

"yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream." Kahlil Gibran

the next next next never mind

because 2014 was, in its ego-scraping mortifying humbling boundary-establishing way, a memorable year, it cannot possibly be considered, in retrospect, a bad year. 

it could probably even be mindfuckishly classified as a very good year, because no matter what else happens in my ridiculous life, I will always remember 2014.

or, 2014: the person who treated you like shit but whom you wrote slavish poems about anyway. 

happy new year! 

11th Ave. this is good pillaging-weather: it is dry and too cold for all but the most ambitious of bacteria. I saw several overtly nice pieces of furniture on sidewalks today. my first thought: were they effluviated upon during the revelry? but it's the first of the month like every other month, movin' day mayhaps, so I oughtn't be so cynical. 

the bus stop at 8th & Market. 

the cyclopsian fur-slug. 

an epic 4pm sunset as seen from my lair. 

and as seen from the reflections at Lowell Elementary. 

getting the cat drunk. 

and doing exactly what the laser-pointer labeling recommends. 

"I no longer feel myself; I am won over by the purity surrounding me; nothing is alive, the wind whistles, the straight lines flee in the night." Sartre